THE  OLD  COBBLER 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

By 

ERASTUS  JOHNSON 


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THE 

OLD    COBBLER 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

INCLUDING 

"THE    ROCK   THAT    IS  HIGHER  THAN    I 

BY 

ERASTUS    JOHNSON 


That  thf  reading  of  these  simple  rhymes  may  do  somebody 
some  good,  is  the  author's  humble  prayer.  He  is  now,  at 
this  writing  (1907,)  in  his  eighty-second  year,  and  will 
soon  pass  the  summit  of  the  great  divide. 


WALTHAM,  MASS. 

1907 


TO  MY  NEPHEW 
ALBA     B.     JOHNSON 

who  has  taken  a  deep  interest 
in  its  publication,  this  little 
volume  is  dedicated. 


Preface 

"From  one  to  two  pages  of  autobiographical 
material  "  saith  the  publisher.  Now  how  to  condense 
eighty-one  years  of  a  changeful  life,  into  the  limit  of 
five  hundred  words,  that  is  the  problem  before  me. 

Birth  in  a  logging  camp  on  the  west  bank  of  the 
Penobscot,  about  sixty  miles  above  Bangor,  where  my 
father  was  getting  out  pine  timber  for  a  firm  in  Boston. 

Entry  in  his  diary,  "April  20,  1826,  Junking. 
Hayes  went  after  lumber.  "  That  was  my  first  birth 
day,  but  he  made  no  mention  of  the  momentous  event. 
Yet  I  entertain  against  him  no  hard  feelings,  because  it 
was  no  departure  from  his  uniform  practice.  My  father 
for  several  reasons,  was  accounted  somewhat  eccentric 
and  extremely  radical.  He  championed  total  absti 
nence,  the  Jewish  race,  and  the  anti-slavery  cause, 
carrying  Frederick  Douglas  around  in  his  rig,  to  his 
lectures,  and  entertaining  "that  nigger"  at  his  home 
These  were  reasons  enough,  in  those  early  days,  for 
that  accounting.  For  my  mother's  quiet,  unassuming 
amiability,  I  have  no  words.  I  never  saw  her  show 
impatience. 

1  will  divide  my  life  into  periods  as  follows:  Four 
years  at  my  first  home  taking  lessons  in  logging.  (See 
"  Recollections  of  Childhood,  "  Chapter  III.)  Four  years 
at  my  second  home,  about  four  miles  from  Lincoln,  Me., 
taking  lessons  in  the  rudiments  of  the  three  "R's,"  in 
a  school  house  with  only  six  panes  of  glass,  (sometimes 
less)  and  a  huge  stone  chimney,  for  smoke  and  more 
light.  Also  lessons  in  experience  in  God's  care  for  His 
ravens  when  they  cry.  (See  ibid.,  Chapter  IV.)  Three 
years  at  my  third  home,  the  old  homestead  in  Jackson, 
taking  lessons  in  silk  worm  raising,  and  hop  raising, 
both  of  which  were  soon  abandoned  by  my  father,  the 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

first  for  lack  of  profit,  the  last  on  principle;  also  taking 
first  prize  for  best  scholarship  in  Grammar.  Seven 
years  at  my  fourth  home,  the  log  house  in  Jackson, 
scraping  the  'cello,  as  an  accompaniment  to  my  brother 
William's  violin,  a  half  interest  in  said  "bass  viol"  we 
called  it,  being  owned  by  my  chum  brother,  Samuel, 
(nick  names  were  never  allowed  in  our  home)  who  with 
myself  burned  charcoal  to  pay  for  it,  working  by  moon 
light  and  starlight,  and  rainy  days,  instead  of  going 
fishing;  and  how  many  nerves  were  unstrung  by  our 
string  instruments,  we  never  knew,  which  brings  me  to 
the  age  of  seventeen,  when  I  taught  my  first  school  at 
Machias,  and  walked  home  eighty-five  miles  to  save 
stage  fare. 

It  was  about  this  time,  too,  that  I  made  my  maiden 
attempts,  and  began  to  wonder  if  I  wasn't  a  poet.  But 
let  me  say  right  now  and  here,  that  I  do  not  suppose 
there  is  a  single  line  of  my  writings,  that  by  the  Bliss 
Carman  standard  of  modern,  higher  criticism,  would 
stand  the  test.  I  put  down  eight  years  for  the  new 
house,  where  the  last  of  Wordsworth's  "trailing  clouds 
of  glory  "  came  to  us,  from  the  cloud  land,  and  shut  the 
door  behind  her;  my  fifth  home  for  occasional  bivouac, 
till  I  took  my  departure  in  the  bark  Gold  Hunter, 
around  Cape  Horn  for  California,  in  '52,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-six.  I  pause  here  to  make  a  few  remarks,  con 
cerning  our  family,  which  being  completed,  it  is  fitting 
to  make.  Ours  was  the  proverbial  unlucky  number; 
and  though  our  experience  may  have  proved  the  old 
superstition  to  be  true  in  the  temporal,  I  do  not  believe 
it  will  be  found  so  in  the  eternal  issues.  Two  of  these 
thirteen  went  "out  of  the  body  to  God  "  some  years  ago 
between  the  ages  of  sixty  and  seventy,  and  are  waiting 
the  resurrection  glory.  Eleven  are  still  plodding  on, 
some  of  us  in  much  weariness  of  the  flesh,  with  an 
average  of  seventy-five  at  this  writing,  1907.  The 
thirteen  with  their  descendants  have  a  sum  total  of 
about  3500  years. 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Of  the  seven  who  were  in  California,  not  one  ever 
took  a  glass  of  intoxicating  drink,  nor  used  tobacco, 
nor  got  rich,  nor  used  a  profane  word;  and  the  same  is 
true  of  all  the  family.  After  navigating  the  bark  from 
Chili  to  San  Francisco,  as  a  necessity,  California  became 
my  sixth  home  for  about  eight  years,  occupation  ranch 
ing  and  teaching,  marrying  one  of  Maine's  two  best 
girls  (the  other  afterward  in  Pittsburg).  I  pass  over 
the  sadness,  "God  tempers  to  the  lamb  that's  shorn, 
His  chilly  winds  that  blow.  "  Two  were  left  to  me,  a 
daughter  and  a  son. 

En  route  across,  via  the  Isthmus,  in  '60,  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  eating  for  a  month  at  the  same  table  with 
four  of  the  ablest  champions  on  the  two  sides  of  the 
slavery  question,  the  country  could  produce,  viz. : 
Judah  P.  Benjamin  and  Reverdy  Johnson  of  the  south 
ern  Confederacy,  and  Benjamin  F.  Butler  and  Colonel 
Baker  the  golden-mouthed  orator  who  had  been  stump 
ing  California  for  Lincoln,  just  elected,  and  the  latter 
of  whom  gave  his  life  for  his  country  in  his  first  battle. 
Th^ir  battle  of  words  on  shipboard  was  something 
never  to  be  forgotten.  In  Pittsburg  twenty-four  years 
my  seventh  home,  in  the  oil  business;  two  refineries 
built,  consecutively,  both  went  up  in  smoke,  and  down 
in  ashes,  no  insurance;  traveled  twenty  years  intro 
ducing  the  products  of  petroleum,  far  enough  to  en 
circle  the  earth  thirteen  times,  got  my  second  ranching 
fever,  "boxed  the  compass"  back  to  our  old  home, 
Jackson,  bought  my  eighth  home,  to  be  mine  for  six 
years.  Went  to  the  State  of  Washington  where  I 
"held  down"  a  quarter  section  of  land  eleven  years, 
my  ninth  home.  My  tenth  is  in  Waltham,  Mass., 
where  I  have  been  for  six  years,  making  eighty-one 
years  for  the  rolling  stone,  now 

' '  Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 
Are  a  little  longer  grown.  " 

ERASTUS  JOHNSON 


The  Old  Cobbler* 


OT  far  from  where  it  pleased 

the  Lord  to  cast 
My  pleasant  lines  of  child 
hood,  long  since  past, 
There  lived  a  cobbler.    He 

was  farmer  too, 
Besides  being  sexton,   and 

withal,  he  knew 
Far    more    of    science    and 

philosophy, 
Although  self  taught,  than 

many  an  LL.D. 
He  was  postmaster,  mended  guns  and  locks, 
He  mended  watches  and  made  wooden  clocks. 
What  he  could  not  do,  it  were  hard  to  tell, 
And  yet  what  e'er  he  did,  he  did  it  well. 
Though  old,  when  first  I  knew  him,  long  ago, 
No  older  did  he  ever  seem  to  grow; 
For  he  was  young  of  heart  and  kindly  too, 
And  had  some  word  of  cheer  for  all  he  knew. 
How  oft  we  found  a  moment  there  to  stop, 
To  watch  the  cobbler  in  his  dingy  shop, 
Where  he,  upon  his  long-worn  leathern  seat, 
Was  ever  toiling,  yet  ne'er  failed  to  greet, 
With  many  a  joke,  the  boys;  while  on  his  nose, 
Balanced  midway  from  root  to  point,  repose 

*  See  Notes,  page  97. 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

His  ancient  glasses,  as  he  drives  the  pegs, 

In  some  old  shoe  tight-strapped  across  his  legs. 

In  the  old  window  sundry  watches  hung, 

And  on  the  dingy  wall  lazily  swung 

Sundry  long  pendulums,  as  downward  run 

The  ponderous  weights,  descending  with  the  sun. 

Awaking  with  the  dawn,  betimes  he  rose, 

Nor  rested  all  the  day.     And  at  its  close, 

With  flint  and  tinder  struck  his  evening  light, 

And  worked  or  studied  in  the  silent  night. 

'Twas  not  that  he  was  poor.     Of  earthly  good, 
He  had  enough  for  clothing  and  for  food; 
Enough  for  earthly  comfort,  even  though 
His  well-worn  hammer  ne'er  should  strike  a  blow. 
But,  born  and  bred  to  labor,  he  had  come 
To  love  it  so,  'twas  his  elysium. 
He  to  this  land  in  early  years  had  come, 
And  in  the  forest  hewed  him  out  a  home, 
Where  swarthy  Indians  stalked,  or  darkly  crept, 
To  scalp  their  helpless  victims  while  they  slept. 
Where  storied  bears  from  out  the  dismal  swamps, 
Lay  wait  for  wanderers  from  the  forest  camps. 
And  oft,  with  eager  ears,  we  heard  them  tell, 
Of  how  the  wolves  made  hideous  with  their  yell, 
The  silent  night,  as  round  the  close-chinked  cot, 
Standing  alone  amid  the  small,  cleared  lot, 
New  clearing  in  the  forest,  came  a  pack 
Of  night-marauders,  leaving  many  a  track, 
E'en  to  the  door,  in  the  fresh-fallen  snow. 
Such  were  the  stories  of  the  long  auo. 


THE    OLD    COBBLER 


On  wintry  Sunday  morns,  he  built  the  fire 

In  the  old  church.      Its  heavenward-pointing  spire 

Was  not  more  sure  of  being  in  its  place, 

Than  he  in  his,  with  his  good-natured  face. 

In  cold  or  wret  or  wintry  blast  he  came, 

With  slow  and  limping  gait,  tor  he  was  lame, 

Swept  yesterday  with  care,  he  wiped  the  dust, 

Then  limped  around  each  window  to  adiust; 

Stirred  up  the  fire,  then,  on  his  generous  nose, 

He  placed  his  glasses.     If  perchance  arose 

Higher  than  sixty-six  his  Fahrenheit, 

He  hied  him  straight  to  set  the  matter  right. 

For  service  to  the  church  he  took  no  fee, 

Servant  of  servants,  service  ever  free. 

Esteeming  self  as  being  all  unfit, 

Within  the  church's  holy  pale  to  sit, 

Yet  reverently  he  listened  to  the  word, 

And  we  believed,  sincerelv  served  the  Lord. 


He  was  of  ancient,  Puritanic  stock. 

Stern  men,  that  loved  of  God's  decrees  to  talk, 

.More  than  of  Jesus'  love,  and  thought  perchance, 

That  God,  His  sovereign  glory  to  enhance, 

May  have  decreed  it,  in  his  high  behest, 

That  they  might  never  reach  heaven's  longed-for 

rest. 

Of  sterling  worth,  but  not  to  them  was  given, 
To  win  by  love,  immortal  souls  to  heaven. 

*See  Notes,  page  97. 


II 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


In  the  far  west  and  o'er  the  Rocky  Chain, 
Twelve  years  away,  at  length  returned  again, 
I  homeward  haste,  but  at  the  corner  stop, 
And  turn  my  footsteps  to  the  old  man's  shop. 
But  he  was  gone.     A  year  ago  he  died. 
There  was  his  bench,  his  ancient  desk  beside, 
His  hammer,  pegs  and  lap-stone  just  the  same, 
As  when  he  left  them,  when  the  angel  came. 
There  on  the  wall,  but  ticking  now  no  more, 
With  lengthened  lines,  weights  resting  on  the  floor, 
The  clocks  were  hanging  in  their  wonted  place, 
But  spiders'  webs  thick  veiled  each  sorrowing  face. 


E'en  on  his  bench  Death  touched  him  with  his 

wand, 

A  thread,  half  drawn,  still  wound  around  his  hand ; 
His  candle  to  its  iron  socket  burned, 
With  vacant  stare,  and  glassy  eyes  upturned, 
Against  the  wall  he  leaned  his  weary  head, 
And  when  the  morning  came  they  found  him  dead ! 


Thus  ends  my  tale,  sad  ending  to  relate. 
And  yet,  for  him,  no  doubt,  the  heavenly  gate 
By  angel  hands  was  opened  just  as  wide, 
As  though  in  state  the  aged  man  had  died. 
Howe'er  it  be,  content  were  he  to  wait, 
A  lowly  servant  at  the  Master's  gate. 


OUR  DOVE 


Our  Dove 

From  the  Great,  the  Merciful, 

Through  the  ether  sea, 
Came  there  down  a  wandering  dove 

To  my  wife  and  me. 
Fluttering  at  the  window  pane, 

Weary  with  its  flight, 
Asking  that  we  let  it  in, 

Came  the  dove  one  night. 


By  what  earthward  wind  it  came, 

Through  the  vast  unknown, 
Why  outside  the  pearly  gates, 

Wandering,  it  had  flown, 
How  it  ever  found  its  way 

Through  the  azure  blue, 
Through  among  the  starry  host, 

No  one  ever  knew. 


This  we  know,  it  came  to  us, 

Know  it  didn't  stay. 
Know  how  sad  our  hearts  all  were, 

When  it  went  away. 
Just  a  few  short  fleeting  days 

Tarried  here  our  dove, 
Then  it  spread  its  wings  again 

For  its  home  above. 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Why  it  didn't  longer  stay, 

We  could  never  tell. 
Guess,  that  though  we  wanted  it, 

So  did  God  as  well. 
What  its  humble  mission  was 

To  our  low  estate, 
Doth  not  yet  appear  to  us. 

But  it  will,  we  wait. 


The  Rock  that  is  Higher  than  I 

Oh!  sometimes  the  shadows  are  deep, 
And  rough  seems  the  path  to  the  goal. 

And  sorrows,  sometimes  how  they  sweep, 
Like  tempests  down  over  the  soul. 

REFRAIN 

O  then  to  the  Rock  let  me  fly, 
To  the  Rock  that  is  higher  than  I. 

Oh!  sometimes  how  long  seems  the  day! 

And  sometimes  how  weary  my  feet! 
But  toiling  in  life's  dusty  way, 

The  Rock's  blessed  shadow,  how  sweet! 

Then  near  to  the  rock  let  me  keep, 
Or  blessings  or  sorrows  prevail, 

Or  climbing  the  mountain-way  steep, 
Or  walking  the  shadowy  vale. 

See  Notes,  page  98. 

14 


RAIN    IN  THE    COUNTRY 

Rain  in  the  Country 

It  rains!     It  rains!     Thank  God  for  rain! 
I  hear  it  pattering  down  again 

Upon  the  roof! 

He  who  the  blessing  does  not  feel, 
Must  have  a  heart  encased  in  steel, 

Of  mercy  proof. 

E'en  Jack  frisks  up  and  down  the  walk. 
And  tries  in  homely,  doggish  talk, 

To  speak  his  thanks. 
Snuffs  upward  at  the  darkening  clouds, 
That  hang  in  folds  like  inky  shrouds, 

Then  cuts  new  pranks. 

The  thankful  geese  the  torrents  greet, 
Go  forth  to  find  a  watery  sheet, 

And  gaily  float, 

More  graceful  on  some  tiny  lake, 
Filled  up  anew  round  bush  and  brake, 

Than  emperor's  boat. 

The  sheltered  hens,  a  social  band, 
Talk  of  the  blessing  as  they  stand 

Upon  one  foot. 

The  cock  gives  thanks  with  might  and  main, 
Then  brushes  carefully  the  rain 

From  his  surtout. 

See  Notes,  page  100. 

15 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

The  plowboys,  who  not  often  yield 
To  wind  or  rain,  tilt  from  field 

With  rattling  chains, 
Tie  up  the  horses  in  the  barn, 
Stretch  on  the  hay  to  spin  a  yarn, 

Glad  that  it  rains. 


The  longing,  parched  and  thirsty  sod 
Sends  steaming  incense  up  to  God, 

With  hearty  thanks. 
Down  from  the  yellow,  dried-up  hills, 
Joyfully  leap  the  laughing  rills 

Along  their  banks. 


Early  the  night  comes,  dark  and  deep. 
The  steaming  cattle,  colts  and  sheep 

Are  housed  again. 
Around  the  crackling,  cheerful  fire, 
Are  gathered  children,  mother,  sire, 

As  falls  the  rain. 


16 


OUR    ANNIVERSARY 


Our  Anniversary 

Say,  did  you  never  stand  and  watch 
The  shadows  that  from  clouds  do  fall? 

And  did  you  never  try  to  catch 
Those  shadows  on  the  wall? 


As  swiftly  as  such  shadows  fly, 

My  happy  days  have  o'er  me  flown, 

E'er  since  that  day  when  from  on  high, 
God  spoke  your  heart  my  own. 


The  love  then  sealed  upon  your  brow, 
(You  well  remember  how  and  when,) 

Though  years  have  passed  'twixt  then  and  now, 
Is  stronger  now  than  then. 


A  gentle  stream  'neath  mossy  banks, 
Has  been  our  life's  sweet  onward  flow; 

Begun  with  prayer  and  closed  with  thanks, 
Our  glad  years  come  and  go. 


MORAL 

He  lives  not  half  a  life  who  lives 
Himself  his  god  and  end  in  life. 

He  lives  a  threefold  life  who  gives 
Himself  to  God  and  wife. 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


May  Day  on  Red  Wing  Bluff,  Minnesota 

Along  the  hill  side  steep, 

Tender  grass  shoots  eagerly  nipping, 
Climb  the  lean  cattle  and  sheep; 

While  in  the  sweet  sunshine  skipping, 
The  lambs  like  the  children  a  holiday  keep. 


Meekly  from  under  the  sod, 

With  tearful  eyes  the  tulips  peep, 
And  open  their  petals  in  thanks  to  God, 
Who  life  out  of  death  can  bring, 
And  out  of  the  winter  the  glorious  spring; 
"For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


Here  nature  confirms  thy  word, 
As  I  read  its  lesson  this  morning. 

It  comes  to  my  soul,  O  Lord, 

As  written  with  beams  of  light, 

That  the  sleep  of  the  grave  is  but  for  a  night, 
Awaiting  only  a  new  life's  dawning. 


And  as  from  its  sleep  so  sweet 

Awaketh  with  glad  surprise, 
The  flower  that  springeth  beneath  my  feet ; 
So  waking  from  darkness  and  death, 
This  body  revived  by  His  life-giving  breath, 

Shall  in  my  Savior's  image  arise. 

18 


REUNION    AT    WILLIAM   JOHNSON'S 
Family  Reunion  at  William  Johnson's 

Philadelphia,  1876 

Adown  through  the  shadowy  vista  of  years, 
Come  memories  thronging.    Back!  Back  !  Oh,  ye 

tears  ! 

Back  into  your  places  of  hiding  I  pray; 
For  tears  have  no  welcome  nor  sadness  today. 


Full  twenty-five  years  of  shadow  and  light, 
Have  passed,  and  for  aye,  since  the  songs  of  that 

night 

Were  hushed  into  silence,  as  hushed  was  the  earth ; 
And   raked  were  the  embers  once  more  on  the 

hearth. 

Ah!  little  we  thought  it,  but  never  as  then, 
We  all  should  encircle  that  hearth-stone  again. 
Only  one  fleeting  night,  never  more  on  the  earth, 
Only  one  fleeting  night  round  the  homestead 
hearth. 

But  lightly  we  thought  then  of  pleasures  of  home: 
And  bright  were  our  hopes  then  of  years  yet  to 

come. 

Out  into  the  toiling  and  into  the  strife, 
Out  into  the  turmoil  and  battle  of  life. 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

We  are  met  once  again,  but  not  as  of  yore. 
The  songs  that  we  sung  then  we  sing  nevermore. 
The  freshness  of  youth  has  been  stolen  away; 
Time  stole  it,  and  sprinkled  these  locks  with  his 
gray. 

We  complain  not  of  thee,  restless  Time,  Oh!  no. 
We  wish  not  the  tread  of  thy  years  more  slow. 
Nor  yet  of  thy  dealings,  Oh!  merciless  Death; 
Though  one  was  laid  low  by  thy  withering  breath. 

The  past  that  is  buried  we  leave  to  its  rest. 
The  future  is  Thine,  Lord,  give  Thou  what  is  best. 
The  past  all  forgiven  by  mercy  so  free; 
Ours  only  the  present  to  live,  Lord,  for  Thee. 

To  the  mother  still  with  us  with  presence  so  sweet, 
Who  guided  in  childhood  our  oft-erring  feet, 
A  tribute  of  tender  affection  we  bring. 
Lord  cover  her  path  with  Thy  sheltering  wing. 

Once  more  to  the  toiling,  once  more  to  the  strife; 
Once  more  to  the  turmoil  and  battle  of  life. 
The  future  we  know  not,  whatever  it  be, 
Our  days  all  be  given,  Lord  Jesus,  to  Thee. 


20 


REUNION  AT  MRS.  MARY  J.  ROOT'S 
Reunion  at  Mrs.  Mary  Johnson  Root's 

Amherst,  Mass.,  l88o 

We  look  today,  with  dimming  sight, 
Adown  the  vale  of  vanished  years; 

A  changeful  scene  with  varied  light, 
With  sunlit  peaks,  and  vales  of  tears. 

And  outlined  in  the  purple  haze, 
The  farthest  seem  the  golden  days. 

REFRAIN 

Oh !  memories  of  the  vanished  years, 
We  call  not  back  today  your  tears: 
Forgotten  all  the  toil  and  pain, 
We  live  today  your  joys  again. 

Ye  workers  in  the  field  of  God, 

Whose  locks  with  toil  and  age  are  gray; 
Whose  feet  so  many  years  have  trod, 

In  varied  paths  your  toilsome  way, 
Wre  clasp  your  hands  once  more,  and  fain 

W^ould  hear  of  olden  days  again. 

In  bivouac  here  with  kindred  souls, 
'Tis  sweet  to  leave  the  battle's  din; 

But  even  now  the  drumbeat  rolls, 
To  call  us  to  the  field  again. 

On  battle-field  or  rampart  wall, 
Who  first  shall  in  the  conflict  fall? 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


A  Glimpse  of  Day 

When  but  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  day 
Bursts  on  the  soul,  how  sweet  the  view. 

As  when,  amid  the  storm,  a  ray 

Breaks  through  the  clouds  that  hide  the  blue 


And  if  our  feeble  sight  behold, 

Through  the  rift  clouds,  such  glories  now, 
O  how,  when  in  those  streets  of  gold, 

We  walk  with  eyes  unsealed?     Oh!  how? 


Lord  give  me  grace  to  wait  the  while, 
Till  from  these  eyes  the  veil  be  riven, 

When  I  shall  see  His  face,  whose  smile, 
The  light  and  glory  is  of  heaven. 


Till  in  His  likeness  shall  awake, 

These  powers  of  soul,  now  dwarfed  by  sin; 
Till  from  these  ears  the  clod  shall  break, 

And  let  the  songs  of  heaven  in. 


22 


YE    HAVE    DONE    IT    UNTO    ME 


Ye  Have  Done  It  Unto  Me 

When  we  hear  sweet  voices  calling, 

From  the  regions  of  the  air; 
And  the  twilight  shadows  falling, 

Tell  us  we  are  almost  there; 
Shall  we  mourn  that  we  have  hearkened 

To  the  call  of  the  distressed? 
That  the  hearth  by  sorrow  darkened, 

Oft  our  willing  feet  have  pressed? 


When  shall  close  the  silent  portal, 

Shutting  out  the  world  from  sight; 
And  the  dawning  day  immortal, 

Shows  us  things  in  other  light; 
Will  it  be  no  cause  of  gladness, 

Seen  then  in  that  clearer  ray, 
That  we  led  poor  souls  in  sadness, 

Out  of  darkness  into  day? 


If  to  us  the  sweet  evangel, 

"Ye  have  done  it  unto  me," 
Shall  be  spoken,  and  the  angel, 

Write  it  there  for  me  and  thee; 
'Twill  not  be  that  we  were  gifted 

With  all  lore,  or  mental  worth; 
Rather  that  we  stooped  and  lifted 

Erring  mortals  from  the  earth. 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Not  that  we  His  name  have  spoken; 

Not  that  we  were  called  divine; 
But  that  into  hearts  all  broken, 

We  have  poured  the  oil  and  wine. 
Stooping  with  the  cup  of  healing, 

Thirst  of  famished  souls  to  slake; 
Truth  to  hungry  souls  revealing; 

Doing  all  for  Jesus'  sake. 

Rest,  the  boon  of  God  the  giver, 

After  labor  O  how  sweet ! 
On  the  banks  of  yonder  river, 

Soon  shall  rest  our  weary  feet. 
And,  as  roll  the  years  of  heaven, 

Sweet  the  thought  will  ever  be, 
Unto  these  as  ye  have  given, 

Ye  have  done  it  unto  me. 


THE    BEATITUDES 


The  Beatitudes 

On  the  mount  of  blessing  keeping 
Solemn  vigils,  pleading,  weeping, 
Wet  his  locks  with  dews  of  night, 
Jesus  prays  till  morning  light. 

Morning  dawns.     Along  the  mountain, 
Thirsty  crowds,  to  Christ  the  fountain, 
Gather  from  the  shore  and  sea, 
Far-famed,  lovely  Galilee. 

Left  are  nets  spread  out  for  drying; 
Left  the  boats  that  now  are  lying 
Anchored  by  the  pebbly  shore; 
Furled  the  sail,  unshipped  the  oar. 

Left  the  distaff  and  the  grinding; 
Left  the  reaping  and  the  binding; 
Left  are  flocks  on  hill  and  plain; 
Left  the  fields  of  ripened  grain. 

Dying  souls  their  sore  need  feeling, 
Gather  to  the  fount  of  healing ; 
Drinking  in  the  precious  word, 
From  the  lips  of  Christ  the  Lord. 

Some  rejecting,  some  believing; 
Blessed  truths  of  life  receiving. 
Joy  of  all  on  earth  most  sweet, 
Learning  at  the  Master's  feet. 

25 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Oh!  what  words  of  love  and  blessing, 
Words  a  heavenly  power  possessing, 
From  the  Savior's  lips  do  fall ; 
Yet  how  many  spurn  them  all. 

Words  that  come  down  through  the  ages, 

Better  than  all  lore  of  sages. 

Help  us,  Jesus,  to  receive 

These  Thy  words,  and  by  them  live. 


We  shall  see  Him  as  He  is 

At  last!  at  last!  Thou  art  come  at  last! 

My  Savior  and  my  friend. 
To  hear  that  voice  and  trumpet  blast, 

I've  waited  to  the  end: 

To  be  with  Thee — to  see,  to  reach, 
Thy  side,  Thy  hands,  Thy  feet! 

Eight  scars  and  one,  and  telling,  each, 
Its  tale  of  love  so  sweet. 

O  wondrous  prints  of  nail  and  spear, 
Those  cruel  wounds  that  gave! 

O  precious  marks  of  price  so  dear, 
Of  cost  my  soul  to  save! 

A  crown  henceforth  laid  up  for  me? 

I'll  cast  it  at  Thy  feet. 
To  be  forever  more  with  Thee, 

My  joy  were  full,  complete. 

26 


PRAY    WITHOUT  CEASING 


Pray  Without  Ceasing 

The  morning  dawns.     Adown  the  slope 
Of  rugged  hills,  the  day-beams  grope, 

From  golden  clouds  and  gray; 
And  soon  the  slumbering  vales  below, 
Are  flooded  with  the  morning  glow. 

Befitting  hour  to  pray. 

What  paths  my  feet  this  day  may  tread, 
I  know  not.     By  the  spirit  led, 

They  need  not,  will  not  stray. 
How  thick  temptations  lie  along 
The  path  of  life!  Its  duties  throng. 

What  need  to  watch  and  pray. 

The  solemn  hills  deep  shadows  cast 
In  solemn  vales.     The  day  is  past, 

Its  record  laid  away. 
The  curtain  falls,  dim  grows  the  light, 
And  twilight  deepens  into  night. 

What  better  hour  to  pray? 

What  errors  may^against  me  stand, 
Recorded  by  the  angel's  hand, 

As  closes  now  the  day ; 
What  thanklessness  for  mercies  given  ; 
For  present  joys  and  hope  of  heaven ; 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  I  pray. 


27 


When,  wafted  by  propitious  gales, 

My  freighted  bark,  with  outspread  sails, 

Is  speeding  on  its  way; 
When  all  things  seem  combined  to  bless 
Each  plan  of  life,  Oh!  then,  no  less 

Have  I  the  need  to  pray. 


The  room  is  still,  the  curtains  drawn; 
From  eyes  we  loved  the  light  is  gone, 

All  pulseless  lies  the  clay; 
And  hearts  that  yesterday  were  glad, 
With  life's  sweet  hopes,  today  are  sad. 

We  bow,  and  weep,  and  pray. 


At  morn,  at  eve,  at  noon,  at  night, 

Or  clouds  hang  dark,  or  hopes  are  bright. 

Where'er  I  go  or  stay; 
Until  the  work  of  life  is  done, 
Until  its  victory  is  won, 

May  I  not  cease  to  pray. 


28 


FOR    ME 


For  Me 

See  Him  in  the  garden  shaken, 

Like  a  reed  beneath  the  storm. 
By  His  trusted  ones  forsaken, 

Bending  low  His  sacred  form. 
That  sorrow,  Oh  how  great! 

How  deep  the  agony! 
That  watered  with  its  bloody  sweat 

Gethsemane! 


See  Him  now  at  judgment  seated, 

For  offences  not  His  own ; 
Save  the  cross,  His  work  completed, 

His  reward  the  thorny  crown. 
How  dark  the  dreadful  stain 
On  all  my  soul  must  be, 
That  my  dear  Lord,  such  grief  and  pain, 

Must  bear  for  me. 


See  the  crimson  river  flowing 

From  His  hands,  His  feet,  His  side. 
O  what  love  for  sinners  showing! 

Life  for  death,  Christ  crucified! 
The  earth's  foundations  deep 

Felt  the  expiring  groan, 
And  heaven,  before  unused  to  weep, 

Wept  round  the  throne. 


29 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Risen,  ascended,  Lord  of  glory, 

Now  my  advocate  above, 
Can  I  hear  unmoved,  the  story 

Of  thine  everlasting  love? 
Such  love  as  this  unfelt? 

Such  love  can  I  disown? 
Then  nought  in  earth  or  heaven  could  melt 

This  heart  of  stone. 


Home  Missionary  Hymn 

Help  us  for  Thee  to  bear  the  cross, 

For  Thee  despise  the  shame, 
Jesus,  for  Thee  count  all  but  loss, 

To  spread  Thy  glorious  name. 

Help  us  on  plain,  or  mountain  slope, 

In  depths  of  towering  pine. 
Wherever  souls  in  darkness  grope, 

Proclaim  the  love  divine. 

While  o'er  the  land  from  state  to  state, 

Deep  calleth  unto  deep ; 
With  suffering  cry  of  souls  that  wait, 

Shall  we  in  Zion  sleep  ? 

To  fields  all  white  send  reapers  forth, 

We  pray,  O  God  of  grace , 
Till  East  and  West,  and  South  and  North, 

Resound  with  Jesus'  praise. 


FOUR    MEDITATIONS 


Four  Meditations 

MORNING 

At  dawning  light  I  lay 

On  Thee,  dear  Lord,  my  care; 
For  well  I  know  through  all  the  day 

Thou  wilt  rnv  burden  share. 


NOONTIME 

How  sweet !  how  passing  sweet ! 

The  boon  Thou  givest  me! 
To  rest,  at  noon,  at  Thy  dear  feet! 

So  near,  my  Lord,  to  Thee! 


EVENING 

Night  falls  with  shadows  deep. 

With  Thee  I  sweetly  rest. 
Thou  givest  Thy  beloved  sleep, 

Close  nestled  on  Thv  breast. 


SORROW'S  HOUR 

Though  clouds  of  sorrow  fall, 

I  still  can  rest  in  Thee, 
For  Thou  dost  heed  the  raven's  call, 

And  Thou  dost  care  for  me. 


31 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


My  Refuge 

Numbers  Jj",  6 

When  clouds  and  darkness  o'er  me  roll, 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven, 
Is  there  no  refuge  for  my  soul, 

In  God's  great  mercy  given? 


O  yes.     What  boundless  love,  it  waits 

To  shelter  even  me. 
Its  blessed  walls  and  open  gates, 

E'en  now,  by  faith  I  see. 


O  refuge  of  the  riven  side, 

And  wounded  hands  and  feet, 

And  wounded  heart.     In  Thee  to  hide, 
How  sweet !  how  passing  sweet ! 


And,  till  the  storms  of  life  are  past, 

Here  shall  my  refuge  be. 
Then  at  His  feet  my  crown  I'll  cast, 

If  there's  a  crown  for  me. 


HE    GIVETH    HIS    BELOVED    SLEEP 
For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  Sleep 

Psalm  127,   2 

Meekly  from  under  the  sod, 

With  tearful  eyes,  the  tulips  peep, 

And  open  their  petals  in  thanks  to  God, 
Who  life  out  of  death  can  bring, 
And  out  of  winter  the  glorious  spring. 
For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


The  weary  day  hath  its  close. 

The  rivers  find  rest  in  the  mighty  deep. 
The  death  of  winter  is  nature's  repose, 

Its  hope  and  not  its  doom. 

So  all  things  tend  restward,  and  life  to  the 
tomb. 

For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

What  though,  beneath  the  cold  sward, 
Thy  loved  ones  may  slumber  in  death  so 

deep? 

Be  patient.     The  joyful  trump  of  the  Lord 
Shall  wake  them  again  on  the  morrow. 
Then  trust  Him,  O  grieving  one  in  thy 

sorrow. 
'Tis  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


33 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 
Blind  Bartimeus 

Mark  10 

Hark!  He  is  coming.     'Tis  David's  son. 
Yes,  'tis  Jesus,  the  wonderful  one. 
But  I  am  friendless,  and  poor,  and  blind. 
Do  you  think  such  as  I  could  mercy  find? 


O  yes,  O  yes,  'tis  true,  'tis  true, 

For  yesterday  I  was  blind  like  you, 

And  they  told  me  that  Jesus  was  passing  tha' 

wTay, 
And  I  cried,  "Son  of  David,  have  mercy  I  pray 


He  stopped  as  He  traveled  the  road  along, 
And  hushed  with  His  word  the  voice  of  the 

throng, 

And  He  bade  me  come  with  a  voice  so  sweet, 
That  I  hasted  and  groped  my  way  to  His  feet. 


"What  wilt  thou?"  sweet  words  from  the  lips  oi 
the  Lord. 

"I  come  my  sight  to  receive  by  Thy  word. " 
He  spake,  and  into  the  darkness  of  night, 
There  came  the  glory,  there  dawned  the  light. 


34 


BEHOLD    1    STAND    AT    THE    DOOR 
Behold  I  Stand  at  the  Door  and  Knock 

Rev.  J,  20 

Hark!  'tis  the  Savior.     He  stands  at  the  door. 
List !     He  is  knocking,  has  knocked  oft  before. 
Open  the  door  to  Him.     Open  it  wide. 
Let  Him  come  into  Thy  heart  to  abide. 

Sprinkled  His  locks  with  the  dews  of  the  night, 
Oft  has  He  knocked  till  the  dawning  of  light, 
Saying,  "if  thou  wilt  but  open  the  door, 
I  will  come  in  to  abide  evermore. " 

Art  thou  now  saying  "stay,  Lord,  not  yet; 

I  for  Thy  presence  am  wholly  unfit?" 

Wait  not.     Thou  never  canst  cleanse  thee  from 

sin. 
Only  the  Savior.     So  let  Him  come  in. 

What  though  the  feelings  of  youth  may  have 

flown? 

What  though  the  fastenings  all  rusty  have  grown  ? 
Cry,  as  thou  hearest  Him  knocking  once  more, 
"  Mighty  one  help  me  break  open  the  door.  " 

REFRAIN 

Hasten  to  open  it,  open  the  door. 
Let  Him  come  in,  to  abide  evermore. 

35 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


Alone 

Lowly  cradled  in  a  manger, 

By  a  lowly  few  adored, 
Higher  birthplace  for  the  stranger 

Sinful  earth  could  not  afford. 
He  came  unto  His  own, 

His  own  received  Him  not. 
He  trod  Earth's  pathway  all  alone, 

Cast  out,  forgot. 


God  my  Savior,  way-worn,  weary, 

With  the  humble  made  His  bed ; 
Or  in  deserts  lone  and  dreary, 

Had  not  where  to  lay  His  head. 
What  love  for  sinners  shown ! 

Beyond  all  human  ken ! 
He  walked  life's  valleys  all  alone, 

Despised  of  men. 


All  alone  His  pathway  wending 

To  the  cross,  He  dies  for  me. 
Heavens  darkened!  mountains  rending! 

All  amazed  such  love  to  see! 
'Twas  love  before  unknown, 

None  greater  e'er  could  be. 
He  trod  the  wine  press  all  alone, 

To  ransom  me. 


NOW    I    LAY    ME    DOWN    TO    SLEEP 


Now  I  lay  me  down  to  Sleep 

Falls  the  night  with  shadows  deep. 

Round  the  mother's  lap  all  kneeling ; 

Sleep  almost  their  eyelids  sealing ; 
Laid  aside  the  weary  play  ; 
Lisp  the  darlings  "  Now  I  lay 
Me  down  to  sleep.  " 


When  the  wintry  tempests  sweep, 
O  how  sweet  to  wanderers  weary, 
Night  shades  falling  dark  and  dreary, 
'Neath  some  sheltering  roof  to  say, 
As  in  childhood,  "Now  I  lay 
Me  down  to  sleep." 

Far  away  upon  the  deep, 

WThen  the  head  sinks  to  its  pillow, 
Rocked  by  storm  winds  on  the  billow, 
Who  would  then  forget  to  pray 
That  prayer  so  simple,  "  Now  I  lay 
Me  down  to  sleep  ? ' ' 

When  one  only  wakes  to  weep, 
By  the  storms  of  sorrow  driven, 
Vanished  every  hope  but  heaven, 
Sweet  the  prayer  at  close  of  day, 
'  Blessed  Jesus,  Now  I  lay 
Me  down  to  sleep." 

37 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Me,  dear  Savior,  wilt  Thou  keep 
Ever  near  Thee,  waking,  sleeping, 
Till,  Thy  faithful  promise  keeping, 
Thou  shalt  bring  the  longed-for  day, 
When  I  need  no  more  to  lay 
Me  down  to  sleep. 


Lura  Marinda 

In   Memonam 

Only  a  moment  of  suffering, 

Only  a  transient  night, 
Then  there  were  angels  all  hovering 

Round  thee.     And  then  it  was  light! 

Wonderful!     Glorious!     Infinite! 

Spirit  at  home  with  God ! 
Nought  that  is  earthy  now  left  in  it ! 

Trammeled  no  more  by  the  clod! 

Bury  it.     Let  it  be  purified. 

Weep  for  it?     Yes,  we  must. 
But  He  will  bring  it  all  glorified, 

By  and  by,  from  the  dust. 

What  though  decay  may  dismember  it ; 

What  though  mementoes  may  fade ; 
He  who  redeemed  will  remember  it 

Ever,  and  where  it  was  laid. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 


Recollections  of  Childhood 

CHAPTER  I 
(My  birthplace  in  the  logging  camp  on  the  Penobscot)^ 

Rising  in  grandeur  to  the  azure  dim, 
Skirted  with  clouds,  and  frowning  bold  and  grim, 
On  whose  cold  top  not  e'en  the  lichen  grows, 
See  old  Katahdin,  with  eternal  snows. 
And  this  the  Indians  deem  the  dread  domain 
Of  old  Pomola.     Snow  storms,  wind  and  rain, 
Wait  but  his  nod,  and  forest  glades  below, 
Shake  with  the  tempest,  or  are  laid  in  snow. 
In  deep  defiles  around  its  cavernous  base, 
The  bear  and  wolf  find  shelter  from  the  chase ; 
Or  sally  forth  from  caverns  dark  and  deep, 
To  wake  the  tired  woodsman  from  his  sleep. 


The  simple  Indians,  on  their  sacred  days, 
In  humble  reverence,  chanting  solemn  lays, 
Bring  here  their  offerings,  skins  of  wolf  and  bear, 
In  simple  love  and  trust,  to  lay  them  where 
God  best  can  find  them.     Using  for  a  shrine, 
Some  table  rock,  above  the  towering  pine; 

*See  Notes,  page  100. 

39 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Thinking  that  Heaven's  King,  Father  of  Lights, 
As  coming  oft  to  these  inclement  heights, 
Had  need,  as  they,  of  robes  and  vestments  warm, 
To  shield  Him  from  the  wintry  blast  and  storm. 

Near  to  its  base  Penobscot  rolls  its  tide, 

Down  from  the  Northern  lands.     On  yonder  side, 

The  ruins  still  are  seen,  that  mark  the  spot, 

Where  we  first  had  our  being.     Of  the  rude  cot, 

There's  only  left  a  monument  of  stone, 

Rank  weeds  around  it,  and  almost  o'ergrown 

With  clambering  vines.     And  there,  in  silence 

deep, 

It  stands  a  sentinel,  sad  watch  to  keep, 
O'er  the  old  hearthstone.      Many  years  have 

passed, 

And  o'er  that  scene  of  busy  life  is  cast, 
The  pall  of  silence.     While  the  clank  of  oar 
Wakes  naught  but  echo  on  the  silent  shore. 
And  the  sharp  sound  of  woodman's  ax  that 

stirred 

The  busy  forest  depths,  no  more  is  heard  ; 
And  forest  trees  of  all  their  beauty  shorn, 
Lift  up  their  leafless,  blackened  arms  to  mourn 
The  utter  desolation;  while  the  blast 
Howls  a  wild  requiem  for  the  glory  past. 

Around  that  hearth  all  heaped  with  ruins  now, 
A  happy  group  did  once  in  reverence  bow ; 
Or  read  God's  holy  word,  or  sang  His  praise, 
In  stately  psalm,  or  simple  roundelays; 

40 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

With  heart  and  voice  poured  out  a  glad  oblation, 
Majestic  Truro  or  Old  Coronation, 
Or  raised  in  song  "The  youthful  hart  or  roe," 
And  chased  them  "O'er  the  hills  where  spices 
grow. " 

One  picture  on  my  memory  engraven, 
Of  this  first  home,  is  of  a  little  haven, 
A  little  nook  down  at  the  river  shore, 
With  graceful  willow  branches  hanging  o'er, 
To  kiss  the  waters.     There  we  used  to  go, 
At  summer  eve.     Moored  there  was  our  bateau. 
How  graceful  was  its  form,  in  every  turn! 
With  what  a  rakish  look  of  stem  and  stern ! 
How  like  a  sprite  it  glides  away  from  shore, 
And  cleaves  the  glassy  wave  with  sweeping  oar! 
While  o'er  the  waters  merry  laughter  rings, 
And  then,  returning,  folds  abaft  its  wings, 
As,  through  the  bushy  entrance  gliding  in, 
It  comes  to  moorings  'neath  the  bank  again. 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 
CHAPTER  II 

(Our  Worship  Day) 

In  meeting  clothes  the  happy  children  dressed, 

The  father  shaved,  the  mother  in  her  best, 

And  all  are  ready.     Many  miles  away, 

The  people  meet  to  worship  God  today. 

Draw  close  the  curtains,  lock  the  cleated  doors. 

Bring  from  the  mooring  place  bateau  and  oars. 

The  mother  aft  and  babes,  boys  forward  stowed, 

(For  boats  well-trimmed  more  easily  are  rowed,) 

The  stalwart  father  pushes  from  the  shore, 

And  happier  far  than  prince  with  coach  and  four. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  climbs  o'er  the  highest  pine, 
And  shining  kindly  down  speaks  love  divine. 
Yea  all  things  speak  it;  sky,  and  earth,  and  air; 
Who  love  God's  worship  hear  it  everywhere. 
And  Heaven  draws  near  the  waiting  soul  to  bless, 
With  sweet  Sabbatic  rest  and  happiness. 
With  leisure  stroke  too  soon  we  near  the  shore, 
And  all  too  soon  unship  the  dripping  oar. 
In  bushy  cove  the  father  moors  his  boat, 
And  churchward  strides  with  shouldered  babe 
and  coat. 

The  boys,  now  forward,  now  perchance  in  rear, 
Make  glad  the  forest  with  their  happy  cheer. 
The  church  is  reached  still  early  in  the  day. 
The  country  folk  still  wind  their  various  way; 

42 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

In  twos  and  threes,  and  larger  groups,  they  plod 
Towards  what  they  wrongly  call  the  house  of  God. 
Dear  to  my  memory  is  that  humble  place, 
Where  first  the  gentle  dews  of  gospel  grace, 
Distilled  upon  me. 

But  the  hour  is  come 

For  public  worship.     Hushed  the  bus)'  hum 
Of  Sunday  School.     The  books  are  laid  away, 
To  wait  another  welcome  worship  day. 
The  preacher  comes,  the  groups  about  the  door 
Now  gather  in,  and  silence  reigns  once  more. 
We  feel  God's  gentle  breath,  the  summer  breeze, 
Through  open  windows,  hear  it  in  the  trees. 
All  fragrant  odors  from  the  flowers  distil. 
What  better  incense  could  the  temple  till? 
Ye  toiling  ones,  forget  your  toils  today. 
Ye  careful  souls,  send  all  your  cares  away. 
Ye  troubled  souls,  by  storms  of  sorrow  driven, 
In  rest  and  worship  find  a  type  of  heaven. 

How  short!    How  sweet!    On  God  the  preacher 

waits, 

In  fervent  prayer.     Almost  the  pearly  gates 
We  think  we  hear,  as  earthward  now  they  swing, 
And  catch  almost  the  songs  the  ransomed  sing. 
Sweet  is  the  word,  and  sweet  the  hymn  that's  read, 
And  by  precentor's  voice  some  tune  is  led. 
Those  dear  old  tunes!  which  we  with  chorus 

grand, 
And  harps  of  gold,  shall  sing  in  Beulah  land. 

43 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

But  Oh!  the  second  prayer!  From  shore  to  shore, 

It  roams  away,  and  prays  creation  o'er. 

The  rounded  periods,  sublimely  grand, 

Roll  on  from  theme  to  theme,  while  still  we  stand. 

The  charm  of  worship,  at  the  first  so  sweet, 

Has  all  been  lost  in  weariness  of  feet. 

The  sermon  now  begins  with  well-laid  plan, 
And  runs  far  back,  before  the  world  began. 
Takes  up  foreordination,  Adam's  fall, 
God's  sovereignty,  and  the  effectual  call. 
The  arguments  are  solid,  doctrines  sound. 
No  depth  of  ocean  could  be  more  profound. 
In  marshaled  columns  on  and  on  they  move, 
A  wealth  of  logic,  but  a  dearth  of  love. 

Upright  we  sit.     Legs  weary  hang  below. 
Backs  ache,  heads  droop.     Oh!  depth  of 

children's  woe! 

How  wearily  our  eyes  their  vigils  keep ! 
O,  for  some  quiet  nook  to  lie  and  sleep. 
Hunger  comes  next  with  its  temptation  sore, 
And  how  we  long  for  yonder  basket's  store. 

The  "lastly"  past,  the  "finally"  we  hear  : 
We  rub  our  eyes,  the  happy  end  draws  near; 
'Tis  come  !   a  short,   sweet   prayer  is   prayed  : 

They  sing  ; 

And  with  "  Doxology  "  the  rafters  ring; 
There's  silence  deep,  the  benediction  said, 
We  gather  now  to  eat  the  earthly  bread. 

44 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

The  children  scarce  restrain  their  wayward  feet 
The  men  of  cattle  talk,  and  corn  and  wheat. 
Women  of  all  things,  nor  do  they  forget 
The  invitation,  and  the  times  are  set 
For  week-day  visiting.     Yet  there  are  some 
Whose  words  and  thoughts  turn  towards  a 
heavenly  home. 

As  was  the  morn  so  is  the  afternoon. 

The  service  past,  they  all  are  hasting  soon, 

To  reach  if  may  be,  ere  the  close  of  day, 

Their  scattered  homes,  some  near,  some  faraway. 

The  evening  shadows  gather  in  the  glen 

Before  we  reach  the  river  shore  again. 

With  sturdy  stroke  now  swings  the  clanking  oar, 
And  soon  we  glide  beneath  the  homestead  shore. 
The  welcome  supper  eaten,  chapter  read, 
We  kneel  and  sleep;  are  waked,  and  sent  to  bed. 
Night,  dark  and  deep,  lets  down  its  sable  pall, 
And  hushes  earth  to  sleep;  so  sleep  we  all. 
"Our  Worship  Day"  is  done. 


45 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 
CHAPTER  III 

(Logging) 

Summer  days  have  passed  and  Autumn  changes. 
Flowers,  all  weary  with  their  blooming,  hang  their 

heads, 

And  dame  Autumn  in  the  forest  ranges, 
Lays  them  to  their  winter  sleep  in  leafy  beds. 
Winter,  at  the  door  of  Autumn  standing, 
Entrance  to  her  hearth  and  home  demanding, 
Makes  the  casements  rattle  as  he  rudely  knocks, 
Shaking  out  the  snow-flakes  from  his  bushy  locks. 

Vanished  happy  days  of  summer  rowing; 
The  bateau  we  turn  upon  the  frozen  shore, 
In  the  loft  the  oars  and  boat-hook  stowing, 
Till  the  springtime  rowing  days  return  once  more. 
Now  there  comes  the  busy  time  of  logging, 
And  the  teamsters  by  their  ox-teams  jogging, 
Through  the  winding  log  roads,  whistle  as  they  go, 
While  the  air  is  filled  with  flakes  of  falling  snow. 

And  the  hemlock,  spruce  and  pine  tree  branches, 
Lowly  bending  with  the  snow's  incumbent  weight, 
From  the  heights  send  down  cold  avalanches, 
Showering    many   a   woodman's  closely   muffled 

pate. 

Ax-men  bush  the  roads,  the  teamsters  follow, 
Through  the  snow,  haunch  deep,  the  slow  teams 

follow, 

And  the  off-spring  of  the  centuries,  at  length, 
To  the  woodmen  yields  its  glory  and  its  strength, 

46 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 


On  the  ox-sled  the  huge  pine  tree  loaded, 

One  side  barked  full  length  to  slide  upon  the  snow, 

And  the  team  to  utmost  strength  is  goaded, 

Every  ox  thrice  doomed  to  endless  woe. 

Now  to  rightward,  now  to  leftward  shifting, 

While  with  hornbeam  handspikes  men  are  lifting, 

Round  the  tree  twice  wrapped,  the  heavy  logging 

chain, 
In  the  bark  is  deeply  buried  with  the  strain. 

Victory  is  won,  the  giant  moving, 
Loath  to  leave  its  homestead  in  the  forest  glen. 
Toward  the  river  bank  its  pathway  grooving, 
In  the  world  what  mission  hath  it  ?     Who  may 

ken? 

Through  the  snow  it  slides  with  merry  singing, 
Through  the  wood  the  teamster's  loud  voice  ringing, 
Ox-sled  creaking  with  the  pine  tree's  heavy  strain, 
Till  it  rests  upon  the  river's  snowy  plain. 

Shorn  of  all  their  pristine  forest  glory, 

Side  by  side  the  heroes  lie  like  fallen  braves, 

Who,  upon  the  field  of  battle  gory, 

Sleep  beneath  the  winter  snows  in  heroes'  graves; 

Waiting  for  the  spring  rains  and  the  thawing, 

When,  the  trees'  long  span  in  short  lengths  sawing, 

Woodmen   mark  each  log  with   some  uncouth 

device, 
And  await  the  breaking  of  the  heavy  ice. 


47 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Early  comes  the  night,  and  shadows  falling, 
Camp  ward  turn  the  woodmen,  each  with 

shouldered  ax; 

And  the  oxen,  hungry  from  the  hauling, 
Eager  pull  the  hay  from  well-filled  hovel  racks. 
In  the  camp  the  greasy  cook  arranges 
Beans  and  pork,  with  sundry  minor  changes. 
And  the  pine  limbs  piled  on  logs  of  hard  wood, 

raise, 
Through  the  spacious  chimney,  rolling  smoke  and 

blaze. 

Supper  eaten,  each  his  clay  pipe  lighting, 
Soon  the  cabin  reeks  with  the  tobacco  fumes. 
Songs  are  sung  in  chorus  all  uniting, 
And  each  story  teller  some  old  saw  exhumes. 
Whiskered  men  the  greasy  cards  are  dealing, 
To  all  powers,  both  high  and  low,  appealing, 
While  the  firelight    through   the   open    chimney 

shines, 
Lighting  up  the  branches  of  o'erhanging  pines. 


Soon  to  boughs  of  hemlock  they  are  turning, 
One  by  one,  as  weariness  and  sleep  beguile; 
And  the  camp  fire  all  the  night  long  burning, 
O'er  the  snoring  sleepers  keeps  its  watch  the  while. 
Now  there  comes  the  wondrous  life  of  dreaming, 
And  the  teamster  thinks  that  he  is  teaming  : 
To  the  lazy  ox  with  lusty  voice  he  calls, 
And  in  dreams  the  heavy  pine  again  he  hauls. 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF   CHILDHOOD 

What  a  mystery  is  this  thing  of  dreaming! 
When  the  things  unreal  all  so  real  seem, 
That  he  scorns  to  think  'tis  naught  but  seeming 
And  in  sleep  declares  the  dream  is  not  a  dream. 
And  the  waking  which  he  half  remembers, 
Like  dim  shadow  seems  from  flickering  embers. 
From    this   blessed  dream   life   shrouded    round 

with  sleep, 
Ah  !   how  many  wake,  to  wait,  and  watch  and 

weep  ! 

CHAPTER  IV 


Humble  is  the  cottage, 
Built  of  boards  and  battens, 
Where  the  lonely  mother, 
Anxiously  doth  wait; 
With  its  broad,  stone  fireplace, 
Chimney  built  of  cattens,* 
Often  seen  in  frontier  cottage, 
Of  that  early  date. 
Now  she  stops  her  knitting, 
Turns  her  head  to  listen. 
'Neath  her  drooping  eyelids, 
Truant  tear-drops  glisten, 
As  the  deeper  darkness 
Lets  adown  its  pall, 
And  the  wild,  storm  dirges 
Round  the  lonely  cottage  fall. 

*S«e  Notes,  page  zoa. 

49 


POEMS   BY    ERASTUS  JOHNSON 

Here  with  hearts  undaunted, 
To  the  lone  wild  howling, 
Came  they  in  the  early  days, 
To  seek  a  home  and  farm. 
Naught  of  Indians  fearing, 
Naught  of  wild  beasts  prowling, 
Forest  felling,  thicket  clearing, 
Heroes  bold,  with  sturdy  arm. 
Late  in  spring  the  planting, 
Late  the  spring  wheat  sowing, 
Early  frosts,  alas!  alas! 
Nip  corn  and  wheat  in  growing. 
Fondest  hopes  are  blasted, 
Bright  clouds  turned  to  black, 
Frosts  of  Autumn  scatter 
Sorrows,  in  their  direful  track. 


As  she  waits  the  footstep, 
Watching,  she  remembers 
All  those  happy  home  scenes, 
In  the  far-off  land; 
And  upon  the  fading, 
Fading,  flickering  embers, 
Absently,  she  places 
Each  charred  and  truant  brand. 
What  if  roving  Indians 
Come  to  sack  and  pillage, 
With  the  father  waiting, 
In  the  distant  village  ? 
Waiting  for  the  grinding, 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

With  the  water  low, 
While  the  storm  is  driving, 
Piling  high  the  drifting  snow. 

Done  at  length  the  grinding, 

Bag  upon  his  shoulder, 

One  end  filled  with  corn  meal, 

One  with  precious  flour  of  wheat, 

Homeward  turns  the  father. 

Colder  yet  and  colder, 

Blow  the  dismal  night  winds ; 

In  the  snow  deep  sink  his  weary  feet. 

Lofty,  creaking  tree  tops, 

With  the  wind  are  bending, 

Dowrn  around  his  pathway, 

Leafless  branches  sending. 

Tramps  he  slowly  homeward, 

Bearing  on  one  arm, 

Faithful,  huge-bore  musket, 

Loaded,  ever  ready  for  alarm. 

Is  it  strange  that  sadness 

Lowers  darkly  o'er  her? 

By  the  power  of  hunger, 

Stoutest  hearts  have  quailed. 

Strange  that  dark  forebodings 

Cloud  the  path  before  her? 

Whence  the  food  for  hungry  dear  ones, 

When  the  crops  have  failed? 

Sitting  there  in  silence, 

By  the  fading  embers, 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

She,  the  faithful  promise 

Of  the  Lord  remembers. 

See,  she  now  is  kneeling 

On  the  flagstone  hearth, 

And  the  angels  bring  her 

Bread,  but  not  the  bread  of  earth. 

Rising  from  her  kneeling, 
She  is  sad  no  longer. 
Truant  tears,  by  unseen  hands, 
Have  all  been  wiped  away. 
By  the  bread  of  Heaven, 
Now  her  soul  is  stronger; 
Such  as  God  the  Giver, 
Gives  to  all  who  pray. 
From  replenished  fuel, 
Now  the  flames  are  leaping. 
For  the  frugal  supper, 
Soon  the  tea  is  steeping, 
Sparkling  firelight  lighting 
Studded  wall  and  floor, 
Now  there  falls  the  welcome 
Footstep  at  the  cottage  door. 

Fasting  since  the  breakfast 
At  the  early  dawn  was  eaten, 
Hungry,  foot-sore,  weary, 
Sets  he  down  the  heavy  bag. 
Of  the  golden  corn  meal, 
Soon  a  cake  is  beaten, 
Placed  anon  for  baking, 
'Neath  the  fore  stick  on  the  flag. 

52 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

Hastes  the  youthful  housewife, 

Cheerful  at  her  toiling, 

Beaten  steak  of  wild-meat, 

On  the  live  coals  broiling. 

On  the  wall  the  musket, 

In  its  place  is  hung, 

And,  as  waits  the  supper, 

Hymns  of  grateful  praise  are  sung. 

Cheerful  aye  of  spirit, 

Hoping,  trusting  ever, 

O'er  his  soul  no  sorrow, 

Hung  its  heavy  pall. 

On  God's  faithful  promise, 

Firm  hold  losing  never, 

Though  in  deepest  valleys, 

Often  did  his  pathway  fall. 

Supper  o'er  and  worship, 

Sweet  their  peaceful  sleeping, 

For  God's  angel  o'er  them, 

Watchful  guard  is  keeping ; 

While,  from  raked-up  embers, 

Issue  fitful  gleams, 

All  the  night  long  dancing, 

On  the  floor,  and  wall,  and  beams. 


53 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 
CHAPTER  V 

Hastes  the  happy  springtime. 

Less  and  less  the  slanting 

Of  the  noon  beams. 

Dingy  snow  drifts  melt  away. 

Comes  apace  the  joyful, 

Busy  time  of  planting, 

Speeding  from  the  sunny  southland, 

With  the  lengthening  of  the  day. 

Through  the  want  of  winter, 

God  in  mercy  fed  us ; 

Through  the  desert  dreary, 

With  His  right  hand  led  us ; 

As,  the  ravens  bringing 

Needful  daily  bread, 

In  the  olden  time,  the  prophet, 

Bv  the  desert  stream  was  fed. 


Oft  the  farmer  huntsman, 

In  the  winter,  placing 

Snow  shoes  on  his  feet, 

Through  the  trackless  forest  glades, 

Elk  and  deer  swift-footed, 

Through  the  deep  snow  chasing, 

Brought  them  down  with  aim  unerring, 

In  the  distant  forest  shades: 

Bringing  home  at  night-fall, 

Precious  freight  of  venison ; 

At  the  evening  worship, 

Thanking  God,  all  kneeling, 

54 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

For  the  timely  benison, 

For  His  loving  grace, 

Who,  the  needy  huntsman  giveth 

Certain  victory  in  the  chase. 

Pass  the  spring  and  summer: 

Conies  the  time  of  roasting 

Of  the  luscious  green  corn; 

Now  smiles  plenty  at  our  door. 
'Ah!  but!"  saith  the  father, 
'Let  there  be  no  boasting, 

Till  the  wheat  and  corn  shall  ripen, 

And  the  harvesting  be  o'er." 

So  we  watch  the  "frost-moon," 

In  its  dreaded  fulling, 

Daily  in  the  corn  field, 

Green  corn  freely  pulling; 

Father  of  all  mercies, 

Breathe  Thou  on  the  frost; 

Shall  Thy  children's  hope  of  harvest, 

By  such  direful  scourge  be  lost? 

God  in  mercy  answered, 

And  we  heard  the  breathing 

Of  the  blessed  night-winds, 

Gently  waving  wheat  and  corn. 

And  the  thankful  mother, 

Tender  wild  meat  seething, 

With  the  corn,  arose  thank  offerings, 

As  returned  night,    noon,  and  morn. 

And  the  watchful  father, 

55 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

On  the  corn  field  borders, 

Standing  faithful  sentry, 

For  the  corn  marauders, 

Kept  long,  weary  vigils, 

By  the  moon's  pale  light, 

While  the  stars  made  solemn  marches 

Through  the  silent  hours  of  night. 

Now  at  length  the  question 

Of  the  frost,  unravels, 

With  the  joyful  ripening 

Of  the  wheat  and  corn. 

Now  the  toiling  reaper 

Lays  the  golden  gavels; 

From  the  heavy,  bearded  wheat  heads, 

Shaking  out  the  dews  of  morn : 

Clipping,  clipping,  clipping, 

O'er  his  sickle  leaning, 

Broad-brimmed  hat  of  palm  leaf, 

Autumn  sun  rays  screening, 

Straight-rowed  gavels  laying, 

Of  the  precious  wheat, 

While  the  boys  the  wheat  heads  gather, 

Falling  at  the  reaper's  feet. 

Warm  the  Autumn  sunbeams, 
Sweat  drops  freely  trickle, 
Down  his  sun-burnt  visage; 
Now  the  reaper  stops; 
O'er  his  stalwart  shoulder, 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

Hangs  his  gleaming  sickle, 

Wiping  with  his  well-worn  kerchief, 

From  his  brow  the  falling  drops. 

Since  the  hour  of  breakfast, 

At  the  dawning,  fasting, 

Upward,  toward  the  zenith, 

Wistful  glances  casting, 

Of  the  heavy  wheat  heads, 

Gathers  he  a  bunch, 

In  his  hands  the  kernels  shelling, 

For  his  simple  forenoon's  lunch. 

Past  the  joys  of  dinner, 

Gavels  from  the  stubble, 

By  the  boys  are  gathered, 

By  the  father  bound; 

Some  are  bound  in  single, 

Some  in  bands  tied  double, 

And  like  battle  heroes  fallen, 

Sheaves  of  wheat  lie  scattered  round: 

Just  before  the  night-fall, 

Built  in  stooks  for  drying. 

Capped  with  striding  wheat  sheaves, 

Autumn  storms  defying. 

Homeward  now  the  reaper 

Turns  with  willing  feet, 

Humming,  in  his  thankful  gladness, 

Psalms  among  the  stooks  of  wheat. 

Sets  the  sun.     The  early, 
Evening  dews,  are  falling; 

57 


POEMS    BY    ERAvSTUS   JOHNSON 

Golden  clouds  of  promise 

Deck  the  glowing  west. 

Twilight  shadows  gather, 

Weary  reapers  calling, 

From  the  toils  of  harvest  labor, 

To  the  sweets  of  home  and  rest. 

On  the  stew  of  partridge, 

Careful  thought  bestowing, 

Stoops  the  busy  mother, 

By  the  fireplace  glowing. 

Gather  round  the  table; 

Ye  are  doubly  blest, 

Who  for  simple  food  have  hunger, 

And  have  toil  to  sweeten  rest. 


Wanes  apace  the  Autumn. 

Nightly  frosts  are  singeing 

Everglade  and  forest, 

And  the  corn  fields  late  so  green; 

With  the  hues  of  rainbow, 

All  the  landscape  tinging. 

And  the  mornings,  frost-clad,  sunlit, 

Sparkle  as  with  silvery  sheen. 

Now  are  heard  the  corn-hooks, 

Rustling  corn  stalks  slashing  ; 

In  the  rude  floor  yonder, 

There's  a  sound  of  thrashing, 

Thud  of  tireless  beating, 

With  the  heavy  flails  ; 

And  the  wheat  from  chaff  is  winnowed, 

In  propitious  Autumn  gales. 

58 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

Gavels  of  the  cut  corn, 

Now  are  brought  together 

By  the  boys.     The  father 

Closely  binds  them  into  shocks; 

And  for  safe  protection, 

Mindful  of  the  weather, 

Ties  a  band  of  corn-stalks,  twisted, 

Round  their  down-turned,  shaggy  locks; 

Musket  ever  near  him, 

To  the  deadly  peril 

Of  the  wild  marauders, 

Bird  or  chattering  squirrel ; 

Thankful  solos  singing, 

'Mong  the  rustling  stalks  : 

At  the  nightfall  homeward  turning, 

As  he  counts  the  serried  shocks. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Cutting  corn  all  finished, 
Finished  all  the  shocking, 
Comes  the  time  of  hauling, 
All  replete  with  joys; 
And  the  creaking  ox-cart 
Slowly  homeward  rocking, 
Loaded  with  the  heavy  corn  shocks, 
Now  is  crowned  with  happy  boys; 
While  each  heavy  lurching, 
Times  the  cart-rack's  creaking; 
Wheels  on  wooden  axles, 
Time  eternal  squeaking; 

59 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

And  the  lawless  oxen, 
Stretching  neck  and  tongue, 
Reach  to  lick  up  scattered  suckers, 
Stumps  and  hills  of  corn  among. 


Comes  the  time  for  husking. 
Old  and  young  invited, 
From  the  distant  clearings, 
Come  at  fall  of  night; 
With  their  torches  lighted, 
Pitchy  knots  of  pine  tree, 
Trunks  of  forest  trees  all  glowing, 
With  the  ever-changing  light. 
Now  they  all  are  gathered, 
Round  the  log  pile  blazing; 
Merry  songs  all  singing, 
Peals  of  laughter  raising; 
On  one  heap  all  throwing, 
Golden  ears  of  corn; 
Till  the  elder  hours  of  evening, 
Wake  the  younger  hours  of  morn. 


In  the  cottage  fireplace, 
Now  so  brightly  gleaming, 
From  the  logs  and  split  wood, 
Leap  the  glowing  flames. 
While  above,  the  bubbling, 
Well-filled  pots  are  steaming, 
And  around  the  room  are  moving, 
Sundry  white-capped,  aproned  dames. 

60 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF    CHILDHOOD 

One,  with  hand  uplifted 
To  the  fire,  is  dipping 
Precious  crimson  juices, 
That  are  freely  dripping; 
Basting  down  the  bear  meat, 
Ten-pound  loin  or  leg, 
Slowly  roasting,  gently  turning, 
Hanging  from  a  spike  or  peg. 


And  the  loaf  called  "Indian," 

Ah!  let  none  despise  it, 

Baking  in  the  ashes, 

Since  the  hour  of  noon. 

Now  and  then  the  mother 

Lifts  the  lid  and  tries  it; 

'Tis  the  housewife's  pride  of  cooking, 

And  all  hail  it  as  a  boon. 

Now  at  length  'tis  lifted, 

From  its  bed  of  ashes; 

On  the  hearth  stone  waiting, 

Are  the  dished-up  mashes; 

Turnip  and  potato, 

Tea  of  double  strength, 

All  soon  steaming  on  the  table, 

Stretching  now  its  three-fold  length. 


Brown  loaf,  bear  meat,  mashes, 
Ready  now  and  waiting. 
Come,  ye  husking  lasses, 
And  admiring  boys, 

61 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Two  and  two  as  fancy 

Prompts  a  ready  mating; 

Hungry  from  your  midnight  husking, 

Come  ye  all  to  well-earned  joys. 

Now  there  falls  a  silence, 

As,  Heaven's  throne  addressing, 

Reverently  the  father 

Asks  the  wonted  blessing. 

Wit  with  thought  more  sober, 

Round  the  table  blends, 

And  with  generous  pie  of  pumpkin, 

Soon  the  midnight  supper  ends. 


Low  the  moon  declining, 

All  now  homeward  turning, 

Through  the  forest  darkness, 

Take  their  various  ways. 

Borne  aloft  the  pine  knots, 

That  are  brightly  burning; 

Some  their  devious  pathway  tracing, 

By  the  dim-seen  hatchet  blaze. 

Naught  will  e'er  be  told  us 

Of  full  many  a  token, 

In  those  paths  of  forest, 

And  the  sweet  words  spoken. 

Swains  cut  short  your  wooing, 

Swiftly  wanes  the  night. 

Sleep,  for  love-dreams  must  be  broken, 

At  the  breaking,  so  unwelcome. 

Of  the  morrow's  morning  light. 


62 


SHERIFF'S    SALE 
Sheriff's  Sale 

(A  Story  from  Life) 

Going!  to  satisfy  the  law! 

Going!  to  fill  old  Mammon's  maw! 

'Twas  an  aged  widow's  cot, 

That  in  early  years  they  bought, 

She  and  James  so  long  ago. 

Then  'twas  springtime,  then  'twas  gladness, 

Now  the  autumn  tempests  blow; 

Scattering  down  the  leaves  of  sadness, 

On  the  frozen  earth  below. 

He  a  smith  with  arm  so  brawny, 

And  a  face  so  tanned  and  tawny, 

And  a  heart  as  free  as  air, 

Having  served  his  full  indenture, 

Skilled  in  working  iron  and  steel ; 

Leaving  all  for  woe  or  weal, 

Dear  Old  England's  happy  shore, 

Hearth  and  home  forevermore  ; 

With  his  Mary,  true  and  brave, 

Boldly  pushed  in  life's  great  venture, 

For  a  home  across  the  wave. 

In  the  western  land  they  found  it. 
And  as  passed  the  fleeting  years, 
Holy  memories  gathered  round  it, 
Memories  bedewed  with  tears. 
As  the  dewdrops,  pure  and  pearly, 
Glistening  on  the  flowers  at  dawn, 
Seem  those  scenes  of  memory  early, 
Soon  like  morning  dewdrops  gone. 

63 


POEMvS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Many  a  year  beneath  the  willow, 

In  their  verdure-covered  graves, 

All  those  loved  ones  have  been  sleeping. 

Once  again  the  storm  is  sweeping, 

Breaking  at  her  feet  the  waves: 

Gone  beyond  the  rolling  tide, 

Hearts  she  hoped  to  rest  upon : 

Now  alas!  her  home  beside, 

Just  a  going!  going!!  gone  !!! 

Home  of  love's  sweet  transient  years; 
Home  she  loved  so  purely,  dearly; 
Though  of  tears  and  sorrows  rife, 
No  less  dear  for  sighs  and  tears. 
Blessed  spot  where  almost  yearly, 
Dear  ones  struggled  into  life, 
Just  a  little  here  to  wait, 
On  their  way  to  heaven's  gate. 

As  the  dove  or  swift- winged  pigeon, 
Traveling  to  some  distant  region, 
Tarries  for  a  day  or  night, 
Resting  on  some  mountain  height. 

From  this  direful  storm  of  sorrow, 
From  the  scathing  blasts  that  blow, 
Where  for  shelter  shall  she  go? 
Whither  on  the  dreadful  morrow, 
Turn  her  weary  footsteps  thence? 
Leans  the  widow  on  the  paling, 
Of  the  dear  old  garden  fence, 

64 


SHERIFF'S    SALE 

All  her  bitter  lot  bewailing; 
Sighing  with  a  plaintive  moan, 
Weeping,  weeping  all  alone: 
Like  a  bird  whose  nest  the  mower 
Sweeps  away,  his  scythe  before. 

Oh!  that  love  had  wealth  of  Croesus, 

To  relieve  the  suffering  poor; 

Or  that  wealth  had  love  of  Jesus, 

Want  to  drive  from  famine's  door. 

God  of  Sabbaoth  the  sighing 

Of  the  widow  in  distress, 

Dost  Thou  hear  it,  and  the  crying 

Of  the  poor  and  fatherless? 

Dost  Thou  see  the  hearts  that  bleed, 

Crushed  to  earth  by  Mammon's  greed? 

In  the  crowd  a  man  unknown, 
Lately  from  the  golden  land, 
Buys  the  cottage  for  his  own, 
Pays  the  price  in  golden  sand. 

Mother!  mother!     Oh!  my  son! 

'Tis,  it  is  the  long-lost  one: 

Crowned  with  wealth  returned  once  more, 

From  the  distant  golden  shore. 

'Twas  the  youngest  fondly  cherished, 

Of  the  loved  ones,  loved  the  best, 

One  she  thought  had  long  since  perished 

By  the  Indians  in  the  West. 

65 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Crape 

The  black  and  the  white! 

Short  sermon  and  eloquent,  dead! 
Sing  a  psalm.     Let  a  chapter  be  read ! 
And  a  few  words  of  prayer  be  said! 

Cut  short  the  sad  rite! 

And  the  world,  as  before, 

Moves  onward  with  swift- winged  feet, 
And  with  hearts  light  and  merry,  we  greet, 
With  good  morrows,  our  friends  on  the  street ; 

But  him  nevermore. 


Fold  his  hands  on  his  breast; 

Sad  event!  be  it  blest  to  us  all, 

Saith  the  preacher.   The  strong  man  must  fall. 

So  we  bear  him,  with  sad  crape  and  pall, 
Away  to  his  rest : 
And  return,  as  before, 

To  set  forth  the  corn  and  the  wheat, 

And  hear  the  glad  sounds  on  the  street, 

Happy  voices  and  music  of  feet; 
But  his — nevermore. 

Unto  him,  nevermore, 

The  glad  days  of  autumn  shall  bring 
Ripened  fruits,  nor  flowers  the  spring: 
And  mute  shall  the  lips  be  that  sing, 

Unto  him  evermore. 

While  we,  as  before, 

March  on  to  life's  harmonies  sweet, 
With  hollow  graves  under  our  feet, 
And  hear  not  the  surges  that  beat 

On  the  mist-hidden  shore. 

66 


ONLY   JUST  A   MINUTE 

What  folly  our  pride! 

'Twill  be  thus  with  thy  life  and  my  own; 

So  quickly  forgotten,  unknown: 

Like  the  ripple  that's  made  by  a  stone, 

Dropped  into  the  tide. 

And  the  world,  as  before, 

Will  move  onward  with  swift-winged  feet: 

While  others  in  gladness  will  greet, 

With  good  morrows,  their  friends  on  the  street ; 

But  us  nevermore. 

Only  Just  a  Minute 

A  trifling  thing,  forsooth  it  is, 

'Tis  "only  just  a  minute," 
But  Oh !  what  solemn  destinies, 

Of  souls  immortal,  in  it. 

Just  while  we  speak,  'tis  come,  'tis  gone, 

This  fickle,  fleeting  minute, 
Yet  sixty  souls  have  laid  them  down, 

To  death's  deep  slumber,  in  it. 

The  columns  march  with  solemn  tread, 

Of  sixty  souls  a  minute, 
To  bivouac  with  the  silent  dead. 

Heed  we  the  lesson  in  it  ? 

The  fleeting  years.     How  fast  they  roll! 

Our  life  is  but  a  minute. 
O  life  above!     Life  of  the  soul! 

Help  me,  my  God,  to  win  it! 

67 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


The  First  Christmas 

All  hushed  is  the  bleating  of  flocks  on  the  plain, 
All  hushed  the  herds  lowing  to  silence  again: 
Deep  silence,  save  only  as  murmuring  rills, 
Give  thanks  for  the  rainfall  on  Judean  hills. 

The  shepherds  in  converse  recline  on  the  sod, 
Recounting  the  wanderings  of  Israel  from  God : 
Tears  fall  as  they  speak  of  the  glories  of  old, 
And  the  glory,  long  waiting,  by  prophets  foretold. 

See  now  they  are  bowing,  and  on  the  night  air, 
Floats    tremblingly    upward    the   voice  of    their 

prayer : 

"  Oh!  Father,  how  long  in  our  lowly  estate, 
The  Coming  One's  coming,  how  long  shall  we 

wait? " 

But  hark!  there's  a  sound  like  the  rustling  of 

wings ; 

A  voice  through  the  starry  vault  echoing  rings; 
"To  God  be  the  glory,  there's  good-will  to  men:" 
Afar  the  voice  echoes  o'er  hill  and  through  glen. 

To  Bethlehem  hasten,  glad  offerings  bring, 
A  manger  there  cradles  your  Savior  and  King: 
The  glory  long  waiting  your  own  eyes  shall  see: 
The  Coming  One  cometh,  the  "I  am  to  be." 

68 


THE    REDEMPTION    OF    THE    SOUL 

The  Redemption  of  the  Soul  is  Precious 
and  it  Ceaseth  Forever" 

Psalm  49,  8 

(Given  at  a  Sunday  School  Convention) 
Teacher  of  the  precious  children, 

Looking  in  their  sparkling  eyes, 
As  thou  lookest  art  thou  conscious, 

That  a  soul  beneath  them  lies, 
Of  more  worth  than  mines  of  Ophir? 

Than  all  gems  beneath  the  sea? 
More  than  all  the  world's,  and  measured, 

Only  by  eternity? 
Oh !  how  fast  the  moments  roll ! 

Working  time  will  soon  be  o'er; 
The  redemption  of  the  soul, 

Priceless,  precious, 
Ceaseth  soon  forevermore. 

As  the  quiet,  dewy  morning, 

Hasteth  to  the  hour  of  noon, 
So  the  tenderness  of  childhood, 

To  the  sterner  life,  how  soon! 
Reach  and  guide  that  little  tendril; 
Something  it  will  soon  entwine: 
It  is  easy  now  to  guide  it, 

Not  so  with  the  sturdy  vine. 
Oh  how  fast  the  moments  roll! 

Training  time  soon  passes  o'er: 
The  redemption  of  the  soul, 
Priceless,  precious, 

Ceaseth  soon  forevermore. 

69 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Worker  art  thou  oft  disheartened? 

Seemeth  oft  thy  work  in  vain? 
There  is  promise  of  the  early, 

Promise  of  the  latter  rain. 
Sow  the  seed  beside  all  waters. 

Which  shall  prosper,  that  or  this, 
May  not  yet  appear:     It  will  though, 

When  you  reach  the  realms  of  bliss. 
Oh  how  fast  the  moments  roll! 

Soon  the  seed-time  will  be  o'er; 
The  redemption  of  the  soul, 
Priceless,  precious, 

Ceaseth  soon  forevermore. 


My  Refuge 

Oh!  where  from  self  and  Sinai's  flame, 

For  refuge  shall  I  fly? 
There  death,  and  here  my  sin  and  shame; 

Or  here,  or  there,  I  die. 
Shall  not  thy  blood  my  refuge  be? 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  fly  to  Thee. 

My  doing  is  a  deadly  thing, 

It  gives  my  soul  no  rest. 
And  good  resolves  can  never  bring 

Peace  to  the  troubled  breast. 
Thy  blood  my  only  plea  shall  be: 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  trust  in  Thee. 


70 


THE    OUTCAST 
The  Outcast 

(Suggested  by  an  incident) 

Who  cares  for  me?     Not  one, 

For  my  poor  life,  or  death,  or  soul. 

And  so  I  plod  life's  way  alone, 
To  reach  its  dreaded  goal. 

Oh!  mournful  memories! 

Hopes  blasted  stand  all  stark  and  black, 
As  trunks  of  scorched  and  limbless  trees, 

Along  the  fire-fiend's  track. 

What,  me?     Speak  louder  pray: 
These  ears  no  more  do  hear  aright. 

For  me  ?     No,  no.     No  dawn  of  day, 
Could  come  of  such  a  night. 

And  yet  a  glimmering  beam, 

Seems  stealing  through  the  dark  abyss, 
Of  my  poor  soul.     Is  it  a  dream? 

Dawns  hope  on  night  like  this? 

Read  me  that  verse  again. 

Could  I  but  know  He  loves  me  still, 
This  very  weariness  and  pain, 

Were  joy,  if  by  His  will. 

'Tis  so.     I  feel  'tis  so, 

And  lay  me  prostrate  at  His  feet. 
For  Him  I'll  toil  or  wait  below. 

For  Him  e'en  pain  were  sweet. 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


Jeremiah   12,  5 

Oh  what  wilt  thou  do, 
In  the  swellings  of  Jordan  ? 
How  canst  thou,  thus  madly, 
Rush  on  to  thy  fate  ? 
Too  late  then,  too  late, 
To  sue  for  thy  pardon. 
And  echo  shall  answer, 
"Forever  too  late!" 


There's  life  for  thee  now, 
And  thy  God  is  the  Giver, 
Oh !  why  turn  away 
From  an  offer  so  great? 
There's  peace  for  thy  soul, 
There's  glory  forever. 
Oh!  wait  not  the  sentence, 
"  Forever  too  late ! " 


The  Spirit,  the  Bride, 
And  the  Savior  are  calling. 
How  blest  is  the  hour, 
And  what  folly  to  wait! 
For  soon  on  thy  soul, 
The  dread  sentence  falling, 
Shall  echo  forever, 
"Forever  too  late!" 

72 


THE   OLD    TOWN    PUMP 


The  Old  Town  Pump 

Read  before  a  gathering  of  Temperance  Workers  in 
Pittsburg,  Pa. 

One  morning  quite  early,  my  breakfast  before, 
Having  read  in  the  paper  what's  worth  it  and 

more, 

Of  lands  far  away,  of  trains  in  the  ditches, 
And  all  because  something  was  wrong  with  the 

switches ; 

Of  Corbett  and  Sullivan,  Patchen  and  Dexter, 
How  sl'e  got  divorced  just  because  he  had  vexed 

her  : 

How  Barnum  the  public,  poor  public!  was  gulling; 
Of  news  from  the  game  fields,  of  tennis  and 

sculling, 

Of  news  telegraphic  of  all  things  that  vex  us, 
Of  murders  and  stealings  from  the  "  Pine  Tree  " 

to  Texas: 


Having  laid  the  sheet  by,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
And  a  wish  that  the  world  were  as  good  as  am  I ; 
Having  writ  in  my  journal  of  yesterday's  doings, 
And  wait  on  the  boilings  and  broilings  and 

stewings, 
With  my  corpus  in  one  chair,  and  feet  in  another, 

73 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

I  watch  on  the  street  for  something  or  other 

To  turn   up.     It  doesn't,  so  I  watch  the  Town 

Pump, 

That  faithful  old  servant  with  its  rattle  and  thump. 
Its  soul-stirring  music  awakes  us  at  dawning, 
Before  even  "Phoebus  the  hills  is  adorning," 
Nor  stops  till  old  Phoebus  has  sunk  in  the  west, 
And  the  last  street  stroller  has  gone  to  his  rest. 

But  here  comes  the  housewife.     She  pumps  with 

a  jerk, 

For  her  man  wants  his  breakfast  to  go  to  his  work. 
There's  the  kettle  to  boil  and  there's  coffee  to  make, 
There  are  eggs  to  be  fried,  and  biscuit  to  bake, 
Potatoes  to  warm  up  and  beef  steak  to  broil ; 
The  good  wife  (we  know  her)  complains  not  of  toil, 
Though  waking  at  dawning,  before  the  cockcrows, 
And  working  long  after  the  weary  day's  close. 
Ah !  once  she  was  pretty,  but  all  that  is  past ; 
She  looks  at  you  now  with  a  sorrowful  cast ; 
Beneath  that  old  bonnet,  but  little  is  left, 
To  tell  of  the  beauty  her  toils  have  bereft ; 
But  out  of  that  toiling  and  sorrow,  has  grown 
A  sweetness  of  spirit,  though  beauty  has  fiown. 
Her  lot  is  to  toil,  and  her  toils  never  end, 
When  there's  naught  else  to  do,  there's  something 

to  mend. 

Anon  she  returns  with  her  bucket  and  tub ; 
Poor  woman  when  will  she  have  no  more  to  scrub  ? 
A  big  boy  comes  with  her,  no  shoes  and  no  hat; 
His  trousers  in  patches,  but  what  of  all  that  ? 

74 


THE    OLD    TOWN    PUMP 

He's  a  hero  at  pumping.    When  he  pumps  how  he 

jumps  ! 
With  her  elbows  akimbo  she  looks  on  while  he 

pumps. 
From  the  spout,  gladly  gushing,  the  clear  waters 

run, 
And  home  with  the  tub  tug  the  mother  and  son. 


Next  comes  an  old  toper,  just  going  to  his  shop ; 
He  has  called  at  the  tavern  to  take  a  "  wee  drop.  " 
At  the  Old  Town  Pump  now  stops  the  old  bloat, 
To  wash  out  the  poison  that  sticks  in  his  throat. 
His  children  in  garments  all  tattered  and  torn. 
The  mother?   she  would,  but  she  cannot,  forlorn! 
Oh!  Father  how  long  in  such  lowly  estate, 
The  righteous  day  waiting,  how  long  must  they 

wait  ? 
Oh!    away  with  the  bumper!      Away  with  the 

bowl ! 

Away  with  thy  whiskey,  Oh!  man  with  a  soul! 
It  will  bite  like  a  serpent  and  sting  like  an  adder, 
And  thou'lt  find  thyself  soon  at  the  foot  of  the 

ladder. 

There's  health  in  the  waters  of  the   Old  Town 

Pump. 

There's  soul-stirring  nrusic  in  its  rattle  and  thump. 
Then  away  with  thy  bumper!     Away  with  thy 

bowl ! 
Away  with  thy  whiskey,  Oh!  man  with  a  soul! 

75 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Now  comes  an  old  woman  bent  low  by  the  years. 
She  has  drunk  of  earth's  sorrows,  she  knoweth  its 

tears, 

She  is  weary  of  earth  with  its  toiling  and  strife, 
But  long  has  she  drunk  of  the  waters  of  life. 
How  slowly  she  totters !  her  weary  limbs  shake ; 
How  wearily  raises  the  heavy  pump  brake! 
Ah!  soon  we  shall  see  her  no  more  at  the  pump. 
How  weary  its  creaking!  how  slow  is  its  thump! 

But  here  are  two  boys  and  they  both  want  a  drink; 
So  each  takes  his  turn,  bending  over  the  sink. 
One  places  his  mouth  at  the  old  mossy  spout, 
And  drinks  of  the  stream  that  the  other  pumps  out. 
"Pis  a  business  transaction,  nothing  more,  it  would 

seem; 

A  sort  of  extempore  partnership  scheme. 
Each  goes  on  his  way  with  a  whoop  and  a  jump, 
But  long  they'll  remember  the  Old  Town  Pump. 

But  hither  comes  singing,  a  maid  to  the  pump. 
As    she    sings  she  keeps  time  to  its  rattle  and 

thump. 

Her  life  is  before  her,  how  bright  is  its  bloom! 
May  clouds  never  cover  her  path  to  the  tomb. 
From  the  spout  green  and  mossy  the  bright  water 

flows, 

There's  beauty,  there's  gladness  wherever  she  goes. 
"Come  ye  to  the  waters,  who  thirsts  let  him 

come." 

76 


THE    OLD    TOWN    PUMP 

Thus  she  sings  at  her  pumping,  and  sings  at  her 

home. 
She  is  none  of  your  dainties,  just  the  one  for  a 

wife. 
There's  health  in  those  roses,  there's  joy  in  that 

life. 

Thrice  happy  the  swain,  his  day  star  is  risen 
When,  if  he  shall  ask  her,  she'll  say  she  is  "his'n."  * 

Here  comes  an  old  soldier,  with  one  leg  and  a 

stump ; 
With   his  bucket   he   hobbles  to  the   Old  Town 

Pump. 

The  fall  of  Fort  Sumter  he  heard  from  afar, 
And  shouldered  his  gun  at  the  tocsin  of  war. 
In  battle,  on  picket,  in  tent  field,  in  camp, 
In  heat  of  the  Southland,  in  cold  and  in  damp, 
The  best  of  his  service,  his  strength  and  his  blood, 
He  gave  to  his  country,  he  gave  to  his  God. 
But  his  battles  are  fought,  all  his  victories  won. 
His  life's  work  is  ended,  fast  setting  his  sun. 
He  is  wearily  waiting  the  sound  of  the  trump, 
When  his  long-lost  leg  shall  return  to  its  stump. 
His  life  is  a  burden  not  much  past  its  noon. 
Where  weariness  comes  not,  he'll  be  soon,  Oh! 

how  soon! 
And  we  no  more  shall  see  him  at  the  Old  Town 

Pump, 
Where  he  wearily  hobbles  with  one  leg  and  a 

stump. 

*See  Notes,  page  102. 

77 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

O  servant  of  servants,  thou  good  Old  Town  Pump ! 
There's  soul-stirring  music  in  thy  rattle  and 

thump. 

The  people  all  know  thee  and  love  thee  as  well ; 
What  blessings  thou  givest  none  ever  can  tell. 
So  here's  to  the  health  of  the  old  Town  Pump — 
A  glass  of  cold  water  for  its  rattle  and  thump  ; 
And  one  to  the  woman  that  pumps  with  a  jerk, 
And  one  to  her  man  as  he  goes  to  his  work. 


A  glass  for  the  toper  if  only  he'll  stop 
His  going  to  the  tavern  to  get  a  "wee  drop  ; " 
And  two  for  the  boys  with  the  whoop  and  the  jump, 
Who  schemed  it   to  get   them  a  drink  from  the 

pump. 

A  glass  to  the  maiden  that  sings  when  she  pumps, 
And  one  to  the  swain  that  she  cures  of  the  dumps, 
And  two  for  the  soldier  with  one  leg  and  a  stump. 
There's  enough  for  us  all  till  the  sound  of  the 

trump 
Shall  call  us  up  higher  than  the  Old  Town  Pump. 


DEAR    UNCLE    SAM 
Dear  Uncle  Sam 

Pittsburg,  July  !(?,   1867 

A  little  converse  let  us  hold, 

Of  years  gone  by. 
For  uncle  you  are  growing  old, 

And  so  am  I. 

But  are  we  not  of  heart  as  young, 

As  in  those  days, 
When  round  your  hearth  we  gaily  sung, 

Those  roundelays? 

Some  of  those  voices  on  the  earth. 

Are  heard  no  more. 
Gone  from  the  threshold  and  the  hearth, 

To  yonder  shore. 

A  longer  lease  kind  heaven  has  made, 

You  and  myself, 
But  long  ago  your  flute  was  laid, 

Upon  the  shelf. 

My  voice,  now  but  a  husky  bass, 

Has  had  its  time. 
But  often  in  life's  dusty  race, 

In  mournful  chime, 


79 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Up  from  the  shadows  of  the  past, 

Some  old  refrain, 
Almost  forgotten,  now  at  last, 

Returns  again. 

But  from  the  ground  methinks  T  hear 

Old  "Ship  ahoy. " 

Saying  "Each  hour,  each  day,  each  year, 
"  Hath  its  own  joy. 

'  Out  from  our  verdure-covered  grave, 

"Oh!  call  us  not. 

'  Our  day  is  past.     One  boon  we  crave, 
To  be  forgot. " 

So  other  songs  my  hearthstone  cheer, 

While  others  sing, 
And  so  of  joy,  each  day,  each  year, 

Full  share  doth  bring. 

As  gray  has  touched  in  manhood's  prime, 

These  heads  of  ours, 
So  scattered  in  the  swath  of  time, 

Lie  withered  flowers. 

But  other  flowers  around  us  shed 

As  sweet  perfume, 
So  leave  we  all  those  pleasures  fled, 

In  their  own  tomb. 


80 


THE   JUBILEE 

When  sinketh  towards  the  glowing  west 

Life's  evening  sun, 
And  lengthening  shadows  call  to  rest, 

Our  day's  work  done; 

Then  may  our  thankful  hearts,  still  young, 

Be  glad  with  praise, 
As  when  around  your  hearth  we  sung, 

Those  roundelays. 

The  Jubilee 

Coming  is  the  day  of  glory! 

Year  of  Jubilee! 
Glorious  day  of  prophet's  story, 

Waits  my  soul  for  Thee. 

Jesus  speaks,  the  long  sleep  breaking, 

Over  land  and  sea, 
From  the  dust  His  loved  ones  waking, 

To  the  Jubilee. 

When  He  comes  His  banished  bringing, 

Home  for  aye  to  be, 
There'll  be  gladness,  there'll  be  singing, 

In  the  Jubilee. 

As  the  watcher  waits  the  morning, 

Waits  my  soul  for  Thee. 
Waiting  for  the  glorious  dawning 

Of  the  Jubilee. 

81 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


To  Mary  in  her  Infancy 

Sweetly  rest, 

Mary  in  thy  cozy  nest. 

In  thy  babyhood  how  blest! 

Mother  watcheth,  never  fear, 

And  thy  guardian  angel's  near. 

Sweetly  rest. 

Calmly  sleep. 

Though  the  storms  without  may  sweep, 

Close  thine  eyes  in  slumber  deep. 

That  smile,  I  seem  to  see  it  now, 

Rippling  rosy  cheek  and  brow, 

In  thy  sleep. 

Oft  in  dream, 

Over  hill  and  dale  and  stream, 
Fancy  bears  me,  and  I  seem 
Standing  at  that  cottage  door, 
Listening  for  thy  voice  once  more, 
In  my  dream. 

Happy  home! 

As  in  distant  climes  I  roam, 
Setting  sun  and  evening  gloam, 
Silent  night  and  evening  star, 
Take  my  thoughts  to  thee  afar, 
My  happy  home. 


82 


THE    LITTLE   QUAKER  GIRL'S    PRAYER 

The  Little  Quaker  Girl's  Prayer 

Said  a  child  just  waked  from  sleeping, 

Eyes  brim  full  of  morning  glow, 
Eyes  the  angels  had  been  keeping, 

In  sweet  sleep,  with  music  low, 
"  Mother,  is  it  Jesus  wakes  me, 

In  the  morning  with  His  light? 
Seems  to  me  as  if  He  takes  me, 

Right  in  His  soft  arms  all  night." 

Then  with  heart  of  sunny  lightness, 

Springing  from  her  little  bed, 
In  her  robes  of  snowy  whiteness, 

Kneeling,  this  sweet  prayer  she  said ; 
While  her  eyes  with  love-light  glistened, 

As  she  lisped  in  Jesus'  ear ; 
And  the  guardian  angel  listened, 

Pleased  such  simple  prayer  to  hear. 

"Please,  dear  Jesus,  bless  dear  mother, 

'Cause  she  is  so  nice  and  good; 
And  she  makes  for  me  and  brother, 

Such  nice  things,  and  such  nice  food. 
Bless  dear  father  too  and  kitty, 

Darling  puss  with  three  white  toes ; 
And  my  little  bird  so  pretty, 

Sings  so  very  sweet,  Thee  knows." 

"  Help  us  to  be  quiet  playing, 

With  our  little  blocks  and  toys ; 
And  to  mind  what  mother's  saying, 
When  she  bids  us  make  less  noise. 

83 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

'Cause  we  always  are  so  sorry, 
And  we  know  Thee's  sorry  too, 

When  we  make  dear  mother  worry, 
She  has  got  so  much  to  do." 

"Thanks  for  such  a  dear  good  mother, 

And  my  pretty  dolls  and  things; 
Thanks  for  father,  puss  and  brother, 

And  my  little  bird  that  sings. 
Now  dear  Jesus  please  to  make  me 

Good  as  I  can  be;  and  then, 
When  Thee  wants  me,  please  to  take  me 

Up  to  live  with  Thee.     Amen." 

Niagara 

But  hark!  a  sound  as  of  the  mighty  roar, 

Of  ocean  billows  breaking  on  the  shore. 

Or  sound  of  pines  to  quiet  vales  below, 

From  mountain  top,  when  winter  tempests  blow. 

My  soul  stirred  to  its  very  depths,  I  stand, 

With  head  uncovered,  and  uplifted  hand, 

And  worship,  not  Thy  works,  O  God,  but  Thee, 

Whose  voice  I  now  do  hear ;  whose  hand  I  see. 

Nations  have  risen,  lived,  and  passed  away. 
With  age  the  mountains  and  the  rocks  grown  gray. 
Day  follows  day,  the  seasons  come  and  go ; 
In  Time's  old  course  the  ages  onward  flow; 
This  grand  old  torrent  ne'er  has  ceased  to  pour, 
Nor  shall,  till  God  decreeth  time  no  more. 


WRITTEN    IN    A    LADY'S    ALBUM 

Written  in  a  Lady's  Album  off  Cape 
Horn,  in   1852 

We  are  far  away  upon  the  restless  sea. 
While  around  us 
There's  a  boundless, 
Fathomless  monotony. 
Though  ocean  waves  are  swelling, 
Or  rest  in  sweet  repose, 
There's  weariness, 
There's  dreariness, 
From  dawn  to  evening's  close. 

We  often  think  of  many  a  joy  at  home. 
While  those  pleasures, 
Memory's  treasures, 
Grow  dearer  as  afar  we  roam. 
Though  mirth  may  be  around  us, 
The  giddy  crowd  among, 
Our  hearts  oft  yearn, 
As  thoughts  oft  turn, 
To  another  happier  throng. 

Ye  winds  of  heaven  gaily  o'er  us  sweep. 
Swiftly  wing  us, 
Quickly  bring  us, 
To  our  home  far  o'er  the  deep. 
The  weeks  and  months  are  gliding, 
As  we  glide  o'er  the  sea. 
Its  storms  all  past, 
We'll  anchor  cast, 
And  shout  for  liberty. 

85 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

"Tis  thus  we  journey  o'er  life's  changeful  sea. 
It  hath  storms  oft, 
It  hath  calms  oft, 
And  many  a  deep  dark  mystery. 
But  with  truth's  unvarying  compass, 
And  hope  to  cheer  our  way, 
Its  storms  all  past, 
We'll  anchor  cast, 
In  heaven's  own  peaceful  bay. 

The  Blood  Alone 

The  blood,  the  blood  alone; 

'Tis  Jesus'  precious  blood. 
This  only  could  for  sin  atone, 

And  bring  us  nigh  to  God. 

Then  wipe  thy  weeping  eyes. 

Redemption's  work  is  done, 
Thy  God  has  given  the  sacrifice, 

His  well-beloved  Son. 

Think  not  Thy  grief  and  tears, 

Can  e'er  for  sin  atone. 
This  only  plea  the  Father  hears, 

'Tis  Jesus'  blood  alone. 

Then  let  us  joyful  be. 

Let  hallelujahs  ring, 
And  through  the  endless  ages,  we 

The  precious  blood  will  sing. 

86 


THE    MUSIC   OF    NATURE 
The  Music  of  Nature 

( Written  at  age  of  //) 

The  rustling  leaves  of  autumn, 
To  some  have  sorrow's  tone, 

And  blasting  winds  that  sadly  now, 
Through  fading  valleys  moan. 

But,  though  they  sing  in  sadness, 

With  music  they  resound, 
And  in  their  mournful  melodies, 

The  sweetest  lays  are  found. 

The  frost-touched  leaves  now  falling, 
From  yonder  withering  tree, 

Have  sweeter  music  to  my  ear 
Than  songs  of  mirth  and  glee. 

Call'st  these  anthems  mournful, 
That  autumn  thus  doth  sing? 

And  wouldst  thou  hear  a  gladder  song, 
List  to  the  voice  of  spring. 

The  soul-inspiring  chorus, 

From  field  and  forest  glen, 
As  now  the  feathered  songsters  wake 

Their  songs  of  praise  again. 

The  streams  that  burst  in  gladness 
From  yonder  mountain  side, 

And  onward  in  their  joyous  course, 
Through  verdant  valleys  glide. 

87 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


All,  all  resound  with  music, 
And  all  their  voices  join, 

In  anthems  to  their  maker,  God, 
And  sing  his  love  divine. 


Summer  Evening 

(  Written  at  age  of  //) 

Softly  now  the  day  reposes, 

Decked  with  glowing  clouds  the  west. 
One  more  day  its  labor  closes, 

Now  the  weary  ones  may  rest. 

Hushed  the  warbler's  merry  singing, 
As  she  hastens  to  her  brood, 

Now  the  distant  bells  low  ringing, 
Softly  echo  through  the  wood. 

Winding  through  the  distant  valley, 
Through  the  wood  and  o'er  the  plain, 

Grazing  herds  their  forces  rally, 
Hasting  to  their  homes  again. 

Sorrowing  one  forget  thy  sorrow, 
Rest  thee  till  the  morning  light, 

Slumber  till  another  morrow, 
Comes  again  in  rapid  flight. 


88 


THE    SCENES    OF    YOUTH 


The  Scenes  of  Youth 

(The  following  was  written  under  a  deep  sense  of  re 
sponsibility  when  the  writer  taught  his  first  school  at  the  age 
of  seventeen) 

The  scenes  of  youth,  how  soon  they  pass  away! 
Like  morning  vapors  in  advancing  day. 
Rising  like  bubbles  on  the  rippling  stream, 
Like  them  they  vanish  in  their  brightest  gleam. 
Stern  manhood  comes.     No  more  that   radiant 

brow, 
That  beamed  with  gladness,  beams  with  gladness 

now. 

Those  joys  departed  cheer  the  heart  no  more, 
Only  as  memory  recounts  them  o'er. 
But  why  repine  at  the  decree  of  fate? 
Far  higher  joys,  my  soul,  for  thee  do  wait. 
These  joys  at  best  are  fraught  with  earth's  alloy; 
Let  nobler  things  thy  heaven-born  powers  employ. 
Begin  e'en  now  the  everlasting  life ; 
Gird  on  thine  armor  for  the  mortal  strife, 
With  pride,  with  passion,  every  form  of  sin. 
Thou  shalt,  God  helping,  glorious  victories  win. 
And  every  victory,  even  here,  shall  be, 
A  foretaste  sweet  of  heaven's  own  joy  to  thee. 


89 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


Sweetest  Name 

Sweetest  Name!  when  I  awaken, 
Let  it  be  the  first  I  call. 

Let  it  be  the  last  name  taken, 
As  to  sleep  I  fall. 

Name  of  Jesus,  earth  proclaim  it ; 
Friend  of  sinners,  Lord  of  all. 


Sweetest  Name  at  life's  glad  dawning, 
When  the  skies  above  are  bright ; 

Sweetest  Name  in  brightest  morning, 
Or  in  darkest  night ; 

Sweetest  name  to  mortals  given, 
Sweetest  in  the  realms  of  light. 


Sweetest  Name!  Our  wisdom  never 
Could  have  found  a  name  so  sweet ; 

And  the  saved,  with  joy  forever 
That  Dear  Name  repeat. 

Ransomed  sinners,  saints  in  glory, 
Shout  it,  falling  at  His  feet. 


90 


FALLS    OF    MINNEHAHA 


Falls  of  Minnehaha 

(Laughing  Waters) 
On  the  river  of  the  same  name,  Minnesota 

Oh,  sweet  Minnehaha,  the  laughing, 

Loveliest  queen  of  the  dell; 
I'm  smitten  fair  one  by  thy  beauty, 

Bound  fast  in  enchantment's  spell. 


Thy  voice!     Oh  where  is  such  music? 

What  other  on  earth  is  so  sweet ! 
Such  form  no  artist  could  chisel ; 

And  rainbows  play  at  thy  feet. 


But  why  dost  thou  draw  thus  around  thee 
That  curtain  of  silvery  sheen? 

In  vain  to  cover  thy  beauty 

Thou  wearest  that  veil,  O  queen. 


All  the  day  laughing  and  singing; 

Singing  all  night  while  we  sleep; 
I  fain  wrould  come  hither,  my  fair  one, 

And  with  thee  the  night  vigils  keep. 


POEMS   BY   ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


At  Lincoln's  Tomb 
1*65 

Welcome  O  earth,  the  beams  of  light, 
That  through  the  darkness  break. 

Dawning  shall  kindle  into  day, 
And  all  the  nations  wake. 


O  nation  from  the  curse  redeemed, 
Remember  those  who  bled. 

Remember  him  who  slumbers  here, 
The  greatest  of  the  dead. 

So  shall  it  be.     He  humbly  rests, 
These  peaceful  hills  among, 

Yet  while  earth's  onward  ages  roll, 
His  praises  shall  be  sung. 


Q2 


Sleep 

O  sleep!  what  a  mystery  sleep  is! 

Of  what  kind  of  stuff  are  these  dreams? 
Of  what  the  mysterious  essence, 

That  so  near  to  the  infinite  seems? 


How  sluggish  is  thought  in  our  waking, 

When  compared  with  dream  thought  in  speed; 

I  leave  the  crippled  old  dray  horse, 

And  make  the  swift  lightning  my  steed. 


All  space  is  as  nought  to  my  charger, 
He  leaps  over  mountain  and  plain, 

Far  away  from  the  flesh  and  the  present, 
I'm  with  all  the  dear  ones  again. 


But  the  gong  wakes  me  up  from  my  slumber, 

To  find  that  my  bliss  was  a  dream, 
That  my  steed  is  the  self-same  old  dray  horse, 

And  sometimes  "things  are  not  what  they  seem." 


Notes 

to 

The  Old  Cobbler  and 
Other   Poems 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

Notes  to 
The  Old  Cobbler  and  Other  Poems 


THE  OLD  COBBLER — PAGE  9. 

The  subject  of  this  poem  was  Mr.  Uriah  Warren, 
Senior,  cousin  to  General  Joseph  Warren  of  Bunker 
Hill  fame.  That  he  was  conscious  of  his  approaching 
death  was  evident  from  the  fact  that  he  said  to  a  lady 
who  called  for  mail  in  the  evening,  "Mrs.  M —  -  I  am 
dying.  "  She  said,  "If  you  are  dying,  Mr.  Warren,  why 
don't  you  go  into  the  house  and  go  to  bed  ? "  He  replied, 
' '  I  promised  to  have  this  pair  of  shoes  ready  to-morrow 
morning;  as  soon  as  I  finish  these  I  am  going."  She 
thought  it  only  a  joke,  and  went  home.  The  shoes  were 
left  unfinished. 

THF  OLD  COBBLER — PAGE  n. 

Concerning  the  "heavenward-pointing  spire." 
Near  the  close  of  my  mother's  life,  at  eighty-five,  on 
her  last  visit  I  think  to  our  home,  she  made  the  remark, 
after  reading  this  poem  which  I  had  lately  written, 
"I  suppose  that  ' heavenward- pointing  spire'  is  a  case 
of  poetic  license."  "Why,  no,  Mother,"  I  said:  "there 
is  no  poetic  license  about  that.  The  church  had  a  spire 
when  I  was  a  boy,  and  it  got  blown  down  and  I  remember 
well  the  night  it  was  done. "  To  my  surprise  she  had 
no  recollection  of  it.  But  greater  was  my  surprise  to 
find  that  none  of  our  family  remembered  it.  In  1901, 
I  made  a  visit  to  the  old  home  town,  and  made  inquiry 
of  the  older  members  of  the  church,  and  found  them 
all  afflicted  with  the  same  forgetfulness. 

In  1904  I  was  in  Bangor  on  a  visit,  and  I  bethought 
me  to  visit  an  old  man,  about  ten  years  my  senior,  an 
early  resident  of  old  Jackson,  partly  for  old  acquaintance 

97 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

sake,  and  partly  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say  on  the  spire 
question.  "Why,  yes,"  he  said,  "there  was  a  spire 
on  the  meeting-house,  of  course  there  was,  and  it  got 
blowed  off.  " 

At  last  I  had  found  what  I  had  been  so  long  search 
ing  for,  corroborative  evidence  that  I  had  not  been  in 
dulging  in  "poetic  license." 

There  was  a  little  incident  connected  with  it  that 
served  to  fix  it  in  my  memory,  which  I  will  relate. 
When  nine  years  old  I  went  to  work  for  my  board 
through  the  winter  with  "Old  Parson  Warren,"  as  he 
was  called,  cousin  to  the  subject  of  this  poem,  and  first 
pastor  of  this  church.  One  morning  after  a  severe 
storm,  the  frost  being  thick  on  the  windows,  I  scraped 
off  a  spot  to  look  out,  and  discovered  that  the  spire  was 
gone  from  the  "meeting  house,  "  and  called  the  attention 
of  the  family  to  the  fact.  In  the  Parson's  household 
was  a  young  lady,  whom  I  thought  very  beautiful,  who 
came,  and  putting  her  beautiful  face  very  close  to  my 
cheek,  looked  through  the  same  hole,  and  the  extatic 
thrill  of  such  close  contact  fixed  the  fact  which  occa 
sioned  it  in  my  memory  forever. 

Those  other  poor  souls  had  not  been  blessed  with 
such  experience,  as  an  aid  to  memory,  and  so  in  the 
passing  of  the  years,  sixty  or  more,  for  them  it  had 
drifted  into  oblivion. 

THE  ROCK  THAT  is  HIGHER  THAN  I — PAGE   14. 

At  a  convention  of  the  Y.M.C.A.  in  1873,  at  Carlisle, 
Pa.,  which  I  attended  as  delegate  from  Pittsburg,  John 
Wanamaker,  was  president.  About  the  close  of  the 
first  session  a  telegram  came  from  Philadelphia  announc 
ing  the  failure  of  Jay  Cook,  in  whose  bank  Wanamaker 
had  $70,000,  which  to  him  at  that  time  was  a  serious 
matter,  and  the  loss  of  which  might  result  in  his  finan 
cial  undoing.  Soon  followed  reports  of  other  failures 
throughout  the  country,  indicating  a  general  panic, 

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POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

and  of  course  throwing  a  pall  of  gloom  over  the  con 
vention. 

As  an  expression  of  the  common  feeling  I  wrote  this 
hymn. 

Mr.  William  Fisher,  the  composer,  was  at  the  con 
vention,  who  with  my  brother  William,  (since  Reverend) 
led  the  singing.  Mr.  Fisher  set  the  hymn  to  music  and 
it  immediately  became  popular  in  the  convention,  being 
called  for  several  times. 

In  1 88 1,  I  was  in  Atlanta  on  business,  and  Sunday 
morning  entered  a  church  where  they  were  just  opening 
Sunday  School,  and  was  invited  into  a  bible  class.  They 
sang  this  for  their  opening  hymn.  After  they  were 
through  I  had  the  vanity  to  say  to  the  leader  of  the  class, 
"That  is  my  hymn."  "It  is  mine  too,"  he  replied, 
"Hike  that  hymn.  "  I  then  said,  "  I  wrote  it.  "  "Well" 
he  replied,  "It  is  worth  writing,  I  have  often  thought  I 
would  write  it  myself  in  my  scrap  book.  "  I  gave  it  up. 

In  1890  I  was  for  a  time  confined  in  a  hospital  in 
Whatcom,  Washington,  having  an  operation  per 
formed,  and  in  an  adjoining  room  was  a  young  lady 
who  had  received  severe  injuries  from  a  fall  from  a 
high  bridge,  caused  by  a  fractious  horse.  She  was  a  good 
singer,  accompanying  her  songs  with  a  guitar,  to  the 
gratification  of  many  listeners  who  spoke  many  a  word 
of  appreciation,  though  unable  to  see  the  singer.  Among 
other  things,  chiefly  gospel  songs,  she  often  sung  "The 
Rock  That  is  Higher  Than  I. "  At  length  getting  so 
that  I  could  walk  on  crutches,  I  got  permission  of  the 
matron,  and  made  her  a  visit,  thanking  her  for  the  en 
joyment  she  had  given  us,  and  making  known  to  her 
the  authorship  of  the  hymn  mentioned,  to  her  great 
surprise. 

Another  testimony  of  appreciation  that  gave  me 
great  satisfaction  was  a  letter  I  received  from  a  lady, 
and  how  she  got  hold  of  my  address  to  write  to  me  was 
a  mystery.  She  wrote  that  it  was  the  dying  request  of 
her  father,  that  she  should  find  out  my  address,  and 

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POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

write,  thanking  me  for  the  comfort  the  words  of  that 
hymn  had  afforded  him.  Another  young  lady  whose 
home  was  more  than  three  thousand  miles  from  mine 
wrote  to  tell  me  that  she  was  brought  to  the  determin 
ation  to  be  a  Christian  by  hearing  that  song. 

It  has  found  a  place  in  at  least  four  Church  Hymnals 
but  with  much  regret  I  find  they  have  changed  its  name 
in  the  new  Methodist  Hymnal. 

One  of  my  nephews  (who  got  part  of  his  education 
at  the  Agricultural  College  of  the  State  of  Washington, 
and  who  being  a  good  cornetist  led  the  singing  at  the 
daily  devotional  services,  led  by  the  president)  told  me 
that  the  hymn  oftenest  used  was  this.  A  preacher  also, 
who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Moody,  told  me  that  it 
was  one  of  Moody's  favorite  hymns. 

RAIN  IN  THE  COUNTRY — PAGE  15. 

There  was  an  amusing  incident  connected  with  this. 
I  sent  it  to  "The  Advance"  in  Chicago.  They  published 
and  sent  pay  for  it,  and  with  it  a  note  from  Dr.  Patton, 
the  editor,  saying  that  he  would  like  to  be  informed 
as  to  my  gender,  whether  I  was  a  man  or  a  woman. 
I  had  made  several  contributions  to  "The  Advance" 
signing  them  "  E.  Johnson.  "  I  returned  answer  to  him, 
saying  that  he  could  get  reliable  information  on  that 
important  point,  by  writing  to  my  mother,  giving  him 
her  address.  He  wrote  and  she  answered  and  added 
that  if  the  information  was  worth  it,  he  might  send  her 
his  paper  for  one  year.  He  sent  it  not  for  one  year  only, 
but  for  some  twenty  years,  I  think,  till  her  death. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD — PAGE  39. 

Place — about  four  miles  from  Lincoln,  Maine,  and 
about  ten,  probably,  from  my  birthplace,  across  the 
Penobscot  in  a  logging  camp.  Date,  1830,  at  the  age 
of  four. 

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POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

That  first  year  in  our  new  home,  was,  of  all  the 
years,  our  year  of  trial.  The  buying  of  the  hundred 
acres  of  land,  and  such  things  as  were  absolutely  neces 
sary,  and  building  a  cheap  frame  house,  had  absorbed 
all  there  was  left  of  past  earnings.  Ten  acres  of  forest 
had  been  felled  and  burned  the  year  before;  corn,  beans, 
and  potatoes  were  planted  among  the  logs,  according 
to  the  usual  custom,  grew  luxuriantly  and  promised  an 
abundant  harvest.  But  alas!  the  terrible  destruction 
by  frost  that  year,  in  all  that  part  of  the  state,  sent,  as 
some  argued,  as  a  judgment  for  the  people's  wickedness, 
fell  alike  on  saint  and  sinner.  A  few  bushels  of  corn 
saved  by  drying  the  ripest  of  the  roasting  ears,  and  a 
few  bushels  of  unripened  potatoes  made  up  the  visible 
supply  for  the  coming  year,  seven  of  us,  all  told.  As  to 
work,  there  was  none  to  be  had,  for  all  were  in  the  same 
condition.  We  boys  talked  about  it  among  ourselves, 
and  our  oracle,  the  oldest,  decided  that  as  father  was 
well  acquainted  with  God,  he  would  certainly  speak  to 
Him  about  it,  and  get  Him  to  attend  to  our  case. 

But  listen!  what  sound  is  that?  It  sounds  like 
a  teamster  talking  to  his  team.  Yes,  it  is;  we  see  him 
now,  and  the  team  pulls  as  though  having  a  heavy  load 
on,  and  he  is  turning  in  here.  He  drives  to  our  door. 
"  Does  Mr.  Johnson  live  here?  "  "Yes;  that  is  my  name.  " 
"Well  I  have  got  a  load  of  provisions  here  for  you." 
"There  must  be  some  mistake  about  it,  they  can't  be 
for  me."  "Isn't  your  name  Cyrus  Johnson?"  "Yes." 
"Then  they  are  for  you.  Mr.  —  —  of  Bangor  sent  them, 
knowing  you  had  lost  your  crop,  and  I  tell  you  I  have 
had  a  hard  time  of  it  getting  here.  "  "  God  sent  it.  Before 
taking  care  of  your  team,  let  us  go  into  the  house  and 
thank  Him  for  it. "  And  all  kneeling,  there  went  up 
heart-felt  thanksgiving  and  praise  to  the  Giver  of  every 
good  and  perfect  gift. 

And  so  it  was  that  He  used  a  man  who  knew  Him 
not,  to  feed  His  ravens  when  they  cried,  and  furnish  a 
lesson  to  us  all  never  to  be  forgotten. 

101 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  CHILDHOOD — PAGE  49. 

"Cattens"  is  a  name  given  to  split  laths  used  on 
the  frontier  for  building  chimneys,  after  getting  above 
any  danger  of  fire.  The  inside  is  plastered  with  clay. 

THE  OLD  TOWN  PUMP — PAGE  77. 

A  word  used  very  often  in  the  West  among  the 
lower  classes. 


IO2 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 


INDEX 

Page 
The  Old  Cobbler 9 

Our  Dove     .........        13 

The  Rock  that  is  Higher  than  I  .         .         .         .14 

Rain  in  the  Country          .         .         .         .         .        .        15 

Our  Anniversary 17 

May  Day  on  Red  Wing  Bluff 18 

Family  Reunion  at  William  Johnson's       .         .         .    19 
Reunion  at  Mrs.  Mary  Johnson  Root's  .         .        21 

A  Glimpse  of  Day 22 

Ye  Have  Done  It  Unto  Me      .....        23 

The  Beatitudes 25 

We  shall  see  Him  as  He  is  .         .         .         .26 

Pray  Without  Ceasing 27 

For  Me 29 

Home  Missionary  Hymn       .         .         .         .         .        .30 

Four  Meditations 31 

My  Refuge  .         .         .         .         .         .        .         .32 

For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  Sleep       .        .         .        33 
Blind  Bartimeus     ........    34 

Behold  I  Stand  at  the  Door  and  Knock        .        .        35 

Alone 36 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  Sleep  .         .         .         -37 

Lura  Marinda          .         .         .         .         .        .         .         -38 

Recollections  of  Childhood 39 

Sheriff's  Sale 63 

Crape  .........        66 

Only  Just  a  Minute 67 

103 


POEMS    BY    ERASTUS   JOHNSON 

INDEX — Continued 

Page 
The  First  Christmas 68 

The  Redemption  of  the  Soul  is  Precious  .         .  .69 

My  Refuge           ........  70 

The  Outcast             .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .71 

Jeremiah  12,5               .         .         .         .         .         .         .  72 

The  Old  Town  Pump    .         .         .         .         .         .  -73 

Dear  Uncle  Sam         .         .         .....  79 

The  Jubilee 81 

To  Mary  in  her  Infancy 82 

The  Little  Quaker  Girl's  Prayer          .         .        .  .83 

Niagara 84 

Written  in  a  Lady's  Album  off  Cape  Horn      .  -85 

The  Blood  Alone 86 

The  Music  of  Nature 87 

Summer  Evening       .......  88 

The  Scenes  of  Youth     .         .         .         .        .        .  .89 

Sweetest  Name         ....... 

Falls  of  Minnehaha        ...... 

At  Lincoln's  Tomb    ....... 

Sleep         ......... 

Notes  to  The  Old  Cobbler  and  Other  Poems 


104 


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